


A Slytherin At War

by mandiblebones



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Rewrite in Progress, abandoned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-03
Updated: 2013-11-08
Packaged: 2017-12-31 10:19:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 34
Words: 78,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1030535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mandiblebones/pseuds/mandiblebones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once upon a time, there was a young boy in Britain. When he was 11 years old, he traveled on a magical journey to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where he discovered the many joys of magic. Over the course of seven years, with the mentorship of a powerful wizard, he learned the Power of Love and True Friendship, and with his friends by his side, he defeated the terrible Dark Lord Voldemort and saved the Wizarding World forever.</p><p>This is not quite that story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Platform Nine and Three Quarters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Draco Malfoy returns from the future and nearly falls the hell over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "103: My commander is not old enough to have fought in the Civil War, and I should stop implying that he did."  
> \- 213 Things Skippy is No Longer Allowed to Do in the U.S. Army

 

  
**A Slytherin at War Year 1:  
** **Draco Malfoy and the Last Second Chance**

I straightened myself on the platform, struggling to keep my balance. Mother of Merlin, here I was again. It actually worked. Sweet Zombie Grindelwald, it actually worked. That definitely explained the pain in my head – that, and the sixteen layers of hair gel gluing my platinum locks to my skull like a particularly thick helmet. Stars and stones, I can't believe it took me two years to grow out of that hairstyle the first time. As soon as I get to the common room, the gel will be the first up against the wall when the Revolution comes.

My father was lecturing quietly, and I turned to at least act like I was paying attention to the tall man with hair that half the witches in Britain would have killed for. That, of course, isn't even counting the couple of witches who actually followed through on that threat.

"Remember, Draco," he said, "You are better than this rabble and have an obligation to show it." I tried my best to keep my trademark sneer on my face while looking over the platform's occupants, and tried even harder to keep the flash of sudden loss and sudden gain from my face as I saw people who, when I last laid my blue eyes upon them, were lifeless corpses. Or worse. Lucius, of course, was still talking.

"Our family is the finest in Wizarding Britain, and by extension, the entire world," the man who abandoned Voldemort for me said. He hadn't actually done it yet, but then – thankfully – the Dark Lord was a few years from returning this time. I had time to prepare before his inevitable return, and this time, the finest family in Wizarding Britain would be on the right side. No matter what. Even if I had to drag Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy kicking and screaming.

"So do make me proud this year," father added. "You're a Malfoy, so I expect nothing less. 'Ours is the Glory'," he finished, quoting the Malfoy family motto. The official one, anyway. The unofficial motto, 'Do not _fuck_ with House Malfoy,' wasn't exactly something you could quote to an eleven-year-old before boarding a train, even if that eleven-year-old was secretly an eighteen-year-old time-traveler in his old body and keeping that secret from everyone, including his beloved father.

"Thank you, father, I'll keep that at the front of my mind," I drawled, not disrespectfully. "Still no chance you've managed to convince the board of governors to rescind that ridiculous 'no brooms for first-years' rule, I assume?" I distantly recalled that being important to me when I was eleven, and writing a rather petulant letter once Potter got his spot as the Boy-Who-Scored. Lucius scowled.

"No, but study hard, and I'll make sure you have the best by next year," he said. "Only the best for a Malfoy, of course." I bit back the urge to sneer, reminding myself that my father had a lot of growing up to do still — and at this point in my own history, I had even more. The memory of my father buying my way onto the Slytherin team still rankled, though. I am, after all, a Malfoy, and pride has always been our sin of choice.

I nodded my agreement — and yes, I would absolutely study hard. Lesson one of warfare: the Muggle Boy Scouts are right. If you enter a battle unprepared, you've already lost. I knew the moment I stepped into the Room of Requirement after the last battle that I was signing up to fight a war again, and I damn sure planned to win it this time.

As Dobby loaded my chests, filled with silly little trinkets (only some of which would be useful to me in the coming conflict), onto the gleaming red and gold Hogwarts Express (Salazar's teeth, even the _train_ was biased toward the bloody Gryffindors), I took stock of the platform.

The giant clock at King's Cross read 10:30 a.m.; father and I were more than on time. Of course, with father's appearances to maintain, I expected no less. Arriving early, of course, meant limited interaction with the Weasley clan, which for the moment was a good thing. There was, after all, nothing but bad blood — pun not intended, though I would surely have to work that in somewhere later — between my father and the red-headed patriarch of that consanguineous mob of blood-traitors. I sighed at the thought — I really needed to stop thinking of them that way, or it would start to come out in my speech, which would at this juncture be counter-productive.

I closed my eyes, leaning against one of the barriers to the platform, and began to re-arrange my thoughts. I built a bucket in my mind, hung a sign on it that said "casualties of war," and began dumping terms into it. "Blood Traitor" went in first, followed by "Half-Breed" and "Mudblood." I did keep "Insufferable Know-it-all" out of that bucket, since I knew I'd find more use for it than I cared to admit as soon as Granger showed up, but that wasn't terribly offensive so much as it was an uncomfortable truth. A few more terms went in as well before I slammed down a mental lid on the bucket and literally threw it toward the back of my mind. As I opened my eyes again, I even heard it clang.

I might as well have left my eyes closed. Opening them was clearly a mistake for the unprepared. Two living corpses — or so they appeared to my eyes before my mind caught up with my sight — blundered toward me on the platform. Vincent Crabbe, last seen burning to death in his own Fiendfyre in the Room of Hidden Things, held his own massive duffle over his shoulder with one enormous hand, leaving the second arm free for more important things, like stuffing his face with what was likely his second breakfast. Accompanying him was Gregory Goyle, whose final demise I hadn't witnessed, "merely" coming across his body, lying with no visible wound, on the line of fallen students after Potter put paid to Voldemort.

"Never again," I whispered to myself. "Even one more death is too many. Never again, you disgusting half-blood terrorist."

Goyle was less interested in stuffing his face than he was in preparing for later, as both his shoulders appeared to be occupied with bags. From past experience, I knew the enormous bags were even more roomy on the inside, having been charmed for both space and ease of carrying. Still, Goyle stumbled under their weight, having apparently decided to bring an entire gymnasium's worth of weights to his first year at Hogwarts.

"Crabbe, Goyle, all right?" I queried with the slightest hint of a drawl to hide the tremor in my voice. Their faces lit up, in so much as faces such as theirs have that capability, and I waited until they'd loaded their own overstuffed baggage onto the Bias-Against-Slytherin Express before changing the amused look to one requesting an answer. Crabbe, ever the slightest bit brighter than his companion, answered for him.

"All right. Good summer?" Dear Merlin, he's managed multiple syllables. Ten points to Slytherin, or it would be if we'd been sorted yet. I nodded, though I couldn't for the life of me remember if the summer before my first year had been decent, terrible, or some eldritch combination of the two. I did fight back memories of my actual last summer, that turbulant time between my botched Dumbledore assassination attempt and the Dark Lord's in-every-way-more-successful assassination of Rufus Scrimgeour. 'Good summer' would have been just short of blatant lies describing that fiasco, but I did manage to learn something. Of course, the idea of THAT being a good thing would be lost on both Crabbe and Goyle at this point. Hence the simple nod.

"Got everything you need?" I asked, and Goyle's look of confusion — not entirely out of place on his pudgy face — reminded me that I'd never been considerate of my fellow first-years needs, even these two, who I'd known since we were toddlers. I looked over to the adults, where Crabbe and Goyle Senior were chatting with father. I met his blue eyes and tossed off a quick and somewhat irreverent salute, which garnered a raised eyebrow and – dare I say it – the slightest hint of approval. "Come on," I told my flunkies — since apparently they weren't yet my friends — and we moved toward the train.

Oh, yes, I would have to do something about this. I'd seen Crabbe and Goyle move with precision and teamwork before – they weren't the best pair of beaters Slytherin had ever had, but they did manage to give the Weasley twins a run for their money for a game or two, without the benefit of being twins. Add to that the advanced spellwork I'd seen them eventually master — Goyle's "diss-lusionment charms" and Crabbe's ill-fated Fiendfyre, just to name a pair — and I got the feeling I had greatly underestimated two very important assets in my war. Of course, the first time around, I hadn't known I was fighting a war until I had my wand pointed at the Headmaster with Aunt Bellatrix whispering madness into my ear.

This time would be different. If the Sorting Hat could be said to have a theme, it was all the houses of Hogwarts needed to stand united as one to survive the coming conflict. Thankfully, it was wrong – Hogwarts did just fine without most of Slytherin House – but the losses were unacceptable. I had no intention of seeing my classmates lying on a slab again.

No Goyle, his life clearly ended by the Killing Curse, lying next to tiny muggle-born Colin Creevey. No Fred Weasley, half of the only part of that particular family worth remembering, dead from a Death Eater's wand. No Crabbe, burnt alive by his own curse, a child soldier fighting a war that he didn't even have the capacity to understand. No hearing Lovegood's wails from the basement. No watching a Hogwarts teacher eaten by a snake. No standing in front of a madman, scared shitless that the wrong word would spell doom for me, for my family, and knowing the right word would kill three people I couldn't stand but couldn't stand to watch die. Like Hell I would let it happen again.

The Wizarding World had seen years of Gryffindors fighting wars — Dumbledore's duel with Grindelwald, Longbottom's totally-unexpected heroics, and of course, Precious Saint Potter. Hogwarts had certainly seen the way Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs fought: Fenrir Greyback's head would never be the same after Ravenclaw's resident lunatic — no, the other one — dropped a crystal ball on it, and anyone watching Ernie MacMillan defend the gates of Hogwarts against six Death Eaters at once would never doubt Hufflepuff's undying loyalty. But with the sole exception of double-agent Severus Snape and reluctant force of nature Horace Slughorn, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry had never seen my house fight a war.

I resolved to show the school, the Wizarding World and that thrice-damned hat something they'd never seen before. I would need a large discretionary budget for explosives, of course, but that could be obtained. With cunning, ambition, wit and guile, I intended to lead a campaign that would make Salazar proud. I would show the world something it hadn't seen in years: a Slytherin at War.

With that cheerful thought, I boarded the Hogwarts Express.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first part of this fic — through the end of Draco's first year — was written entirely during National Novel Writing Month 2010, and has been edited only in the loosest sense of the term (notes and such removed, bits about head crabs in the forbidden forest expunged, et cetera). If Draco seems a bit OOC, realize that this Draco has been through all seven books as written in canon (minus the epilogue; while I like little Scorpius, he's not exactly here, is he?), and for his enlightened self-interest is attempting to make a change. He's still a little prat, and hopefully he'll grow a little more as the story goes on. So there that is.
> 
> As I transfer this over to Ao3 from FF.net, I'm also taking a stab at minor editing -- and I'm combining what was once "The Last Second Chance" with the beginnings of "Advancing To the Rear" and continuing from there.


	2. The Hogwarts Express

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Draco makes a girl cry, and somewhat regrets it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "119. I cannot arrest children for being rude."  
> \- 213 Things Skippy Is No Longer Allowed to Do in the U.S. Army

I actually had twenty minutes to myself before Crabbe and Goyle joined me in the cabin. I told them the snack trolley wouldn't be operational until the train was, but listing to rational advice wasn't yet their strong point. I could start to fix that after my nap. I'd had precious few opportunities to sleep during the final days of the war, and while my body might have only been awake since eight this morning, my mind felt the full weight of being active for forty-eight hours straight. This demanded attention.

I had barely dozed off, it seemed to my sleep-addled mind, when I felt the train begin to move. I stood carefully and left the cabin to find the water closet, at the very least in an attempt to splash some water in my face before having to face the world. I did manage to make it before being accosted, but no sooner had I left it than I was presented with the face that launched a thousand shits.

A study in early  _canis lupis familiaris,_  specifically of the pug persuasion, Pansy Parkinson's face wasn't the first thing I wanted to see upon waking up fully. Hell, I'd made that decision a long time ago, and her personality made her face look positively tame by comparison. Attractive, even. So there was little reason, I reasoned, to pay attention to her. Unfortunately, she seemed determined to pay attention to me, and in lieu of her clamping her fangs onto my ankle, I turned to face her.

"What, Parkinson?" I asked, gritting my teeth. The old families all knew each other by reputation at least, so the slight bit of hesitation that showed on her face should have been a tip off that something was wrong. Still, she'd proven herself persistant before, and there was no reason she wouldn't be now.

"Draco, I wanted to sit with you! I 'm so excited we're going to be in Slytherin together. It's so much better than those other houses, which makes it perfect for us, since we're better than those other people—" and I cut her off before she could get to the part in the tirade where father was her hero and she wanted to be just like both of us.

"Parkinson, go away," I said, clearly illustrating the exhaustion-driven disconnect between my brain and my vocal cords. "Seriously, just disappear. You're worse than a waste of space." I think half of Gryffindor House would have paid money to see the look on her face. Slytherin had certainly never seen it. It's a shame I wasn't paying enough attention, or I might have caught the mild terror and deep hurting beneath the abject shock. I didn't, of course, so I just continued right on. "Have you ever had an original thought in your tiny little head? Or has your entire life been patterned after your mother? Are you ruining my otherwise-pleasant morning with your screeching because you think it might make you more interesting to me, or just to appease some fantasy of one day marrying the rich pureblood so you can pass on your vapid shell of a life to your own daughter some day?"

You'd think I'd rehearsed it. I was certainly channeling my godfather – Professor Snape would have been proud. By this point, some of the other students had stuck their heads out of their cabins. I noticed Finnegan's face, strangely unsullied by explosive residue, in particular. Even a couple sixth-years were watching as Pansy Parkinson, the Terror of Slytherin to Be, burst into tears, pushed her way past me, and ran weeping from the traincar to another.

"What?" I snarled at the audience, causing more than a few heads to shrink back into their hiding holes as I stalked down the corridor to where Crabbe and Goyle waited to join me, hands full of candy and eyes full of hope for further amusement. I raised an eyebrow at Crabbe, who seemed itching to say something. "Well?"

"Harry Potter's on this train!" Crabbe said. "We should go point at him and laugh!" I bit back a sigh. A confrontation with Potter was the last thing I wanted right now, and if I remembered right, Weasley was with him as well. Even less than Potter, I didn't want to look Weasley in the eyes while I recalled his saving my life. Twice. Bastard.

"Come on, Draco, please?" Goyle whinged. Gregory Goyle is a champion whinger. Between that, Quidditch and eating, I thought for a long time he had discovered his lot in life: he could easily have gone on to work for the Daily Prophet as a food critic or a sports commentator, whinging professionally for the rest of his existence until a heart attack at the age of thirty. I cringed inwardly at my unfair assessment; in hindsight, it was much harsher. Not only had Goyle demonstrated more competence than I'd ever given him credit for, he'd also never made it to twenty, let alone thirty. With that sad thought in mind, I relented to their request.

We swaggered down the corridor like we owned it, something we'd done the first time around as well. This time I was more concerned with making sure my wand was ready in case the two buffoons — or Crabbe and Goyle, come to that — provoked a fight. But we reached Potter's cabin without incident, without even a detour, as my toadies' hands were full, preventing another stop at the trolley.

"So, the rumors are true," I drawled. "I'd like to apologize for not recognizing you in Diagon Alley, Potter. Also, I may have had some unkind words for your friend. Don't make too much of it, okay?" I would never be able to pull of contrite. Even while spitting out an apology, my words seemed haughty and superior in tone, a tone not lost on Weasley, who was glaring openly at me. I sneered right back.

"These is Vince Crabbe and Greg Goyle," I introduced, gesturing to my two hulking — for first-years — companions. "In answer to your unspoken questions, no, they are my friends; no, they are not related to me, trolls or each other; and no, you can not have your own." I almost got a smirk out of Potter there. I still think he was trying to put on a good face for Weasley. Speaking of the ubiquitous ginger, I turned my gaze on him.

"No need to ask who your friend is. Father always said the Weasleys all have red hair, hand-me down robes and—"  _More children than they can afford,_ I thought, then bit off the comment I was about to make. He  _had_  saved my life, and the one thing my father did admit to respecting about Arthur Weasley was his devotion to his family. "More balls than brains," I finished lamely, and was rewarded for my new choice of phrase with a bewildered look on Weasley's face, like he couldn't be sure whether to be complimented or insulted. I suspected I should leave before Potter figured out the answer for him.

"Anyway, see you at the sorting, Potter. I doubt you'll be with us in Slytherin, but if Weasley here can make it to Gryffindor, I suspect you can manage to stay out of Hufflepuff House as well." With that, and an arrogant swish of robes I modeled after my Godfather, we left the compartment door.

"And what, precisely, is less-than-to-be-desired in regards to Hufflepuff House?" I heard an imperious voice from behind me. I turned, slowly, to meet the glowering eyes of that house's heroes, several years before he would become that hero. "I'll have you know my entire family has been in Hufflepuff, and as you are no doubt aware, the MacMillans are hardly less than successful," that family's youngest scion boasted, but the anger in his eyes left the boast less lighthearted than it was probably intended.

"That is true," I admitted. "Assuming of course that you are Ernest MacMillan of the Inverness MacMillans." The glower continued. "I'll take that as a yes."

"You would be correct in that assumption, and correct is more than I can say for your other actions this morn," MacMillan said, and my mind wasn't asleep enough to miss the quiet contempt in his voice. "Miss Parkinson is inconsolable, though no less than three other first-years are presently trying. What, precisely, were you thinking?"

I blinked.  _Ernie "Loyal and True" MacMillan_  was confronting me over my treatment of  _Pansy "Spiteful Bitch" Parkinson?_  I... I didn't even know what to say.

"Clearly you were  _not_  thinking!" he continued. "I would be with them, attempting to staunch the flow of tears, but since two of them are young women and one is of Muggle descent, meaning you would ignore all three, it falls to me to confront my fellow pureblood with his despicable actions and demand a formal apology!" I still had no idea what to say. Goyle attempted to say something for me, which was never a good idea.

"Shut up, you filthy Mudblood!" he tried. Oh, Gregory. A swing and a miss, and you were such a good beater, too. I held up a hand.

"Goyle, stuff that mess. MacMillan's in the right, and in any case he's a pureblood," I said, and Crabbe snickered. "Besides, don't let them catch you using that word at school." Crabbe and Goyle took my admonishment as an attempt to keep them from trouble, which was good. Unfortunately, it looked like MacMillan took it the same way, which was... less so.

"How very, very like a Malfoy," he said, and his voice was the coldest I'd ever heard from the future Hufflepuff. "I retract the request," he added. "I don't want your apology, and I doubt Miss Parkinson would either. Stay the hell away from her," he added, and I wasn't tired enough to miss the threat as he stalked away.

I spent the rest of the trip to Hogwarts sleeping in my cabin. My tired mind was going to get me into more trouble than anything else if I didn't get rest soon. Thankfully, I'd learned that lesson – and one more besides. The Unofficial Malfoy Motto might as well be the unofficial motto of the house of the badger as well: Do not _fuck_ with Hufflepuff.


	3. Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our protagonist is called out on his attitude and rejoins Slytherin House.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "163. Take that hat off."  
> \- 213 Things Skippy Is No Longer Allowed to Do in the U.S. Army

I'd forgotten how beautiful Hogwarts was at night.

Rubeus Hagrid, giant beast of a man that he was, met us first-years at the Hogsmeade station. His beard, black as the pit and singed here and there, was itself taller than I was. I admit I hadn't thought much of him in the past; he was, to an outsider's view, a bumbling fool with more foolish courage than intelligence, a Gryffindor through and through, but not one to be admired.

Of course, that was before I'd seen him go bare-hands-to-claw with a colony of acromantulas during the final battle, and see him take stunner after stunner before he finally went down. If anyone beside Potter could withstand the killing curse, I had no doubt that Hagrid would appear at the top of that list. Plus, I'm told he was a Hufflepuff, and we've already had that conversation.

"Firs' years, over here!" he called. Well, admiration or not, that bellow was mildly annoying. Crabbe, Goyle and I made our way to the boats, ignoring Potter as he introduced Weasley to Hagrid. We clambered into a boat on our own and were ready to push off before we heard a boisterous Irish voice from behind us.

"You lot mind if I join you?" Seamus Finnegan asked, not waiting for an answer before the explosion-waiting-to-happen climbed in beside me. "That was a fair brilliant bit of smack-down you laid on Parkinson, by the way," he added. "Probably out of line, but beautiful to see, nonetheless." Crabbe and Goyle smirked. Apparently, the angry young Belfast resident had made a positive impression. I snorted.

"You a pureblood?" Crabbe asked. I was really going to have to work that into conversation somehow; questions like that would only serve to further alienate Slytherin. Finnegan, for his money, took it in stride, shaking his head.

"Naw. I'm half and half – me ma's a witch, me da was a Muggle. Bit of a shock for him when he found out, of course," he added, and my newly-rested mind picked up the undercurrent of resentment there. "Walked right out. Me ma raised me ever since." Crabbe nodded, clearly satisfied. Goyle even expressed the first positive emotion I remember out of him.

"Sorry 'bout that," he said, much to Crabbe's shock. "Glad your mum managed." I realized, to my chagrin, that I knew next to nothing about Crabbe and Goyle's families beyond their fathers' employment with my father.

My silence was infectious, apparently, as the boat became quite quiet. Some of that, of course, could be attributed to the sudden view of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, a gorgeous half-moon rising over the Astronomy Tower and the lights from the castle mixing with the moonlight and shining on the Black Lake. Crabbe and Goyle gasped, Finnegan crossed himself, and even I, who had seen this before many times, couldn't stifle a look of awed admiration.

"And we get to go to school there," Finnegan breathed out, and I had to agree. Wizards in Britain were well and truly blessed or lucky to attend Hogwarts, something I had taken for granted until Voldemort's reign of terror barred anybody who couldn't prove blood status from attending. Even my father, for all his pure-blood mania, had looked vaguely sick at that – though by that point, it was likely caused simply be recognition that he had been following a madman.

"Yes," I answered smugly, feeling it was the only appropriate emotion. "Yes we do."

A stern-haired witch I recognized from several detentions in the future-past met us at the door after we passed under the castle.

"Welcome to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," the professor said. "I am Professor McGonagall. In a few moments, you will join the rest of your schoolmates for a feast in the Great Hall. However, you must first be sorted into your houses. They are Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Slytherin." Muttering broke out among the assembled first-years. "While you're here, your houses will be like your family. Your accomplishments will earn your house points, and any rulebreaking," I swear, at this point, she took a long hard look at me, Weasley and a couple others, "will lose you points." Weasley audibly gulped. I just put on a quiet smile as we followed McGonagall into the Great Hall.

The Sorting Hat's song hadn't changed since the first time around, but then, there was no reason it should have. An introduction, a verse each for Gryffindor where dwell the brave at heart, the just and loyal Hufflepuff, wise old Ravenclaw and cunning Slytherin, and its final pun before great applause by the already-seated students and staff table.

"Abbott, Hannah!" called the diminutive Professor Flitwick from the front of the hall. The pigtailed, blond witch walked forward nervously, but the hat wasn't on her head for more than a moment before it sang out, "HUFFLEPUFF!" as if it were so drunk on firewhisky it was in danger of catching on fire.

The sorting continued as it had the first time, with little variation. I supposed not much change was in the works from just one train ride, and resigned myself to a decent feast with few surprises. I even got my wish before they got the the Fs and "Finnegan, Seamus" was sorted into Slytherin with only the slightest hesitation.

"Hmm, that's new," I murmured, before I realized I was saying it out loud.

"What's new?" queried a bushy-haired eleven-year-old in front of me, predictably sticking her nose where it really didn't belong. I raised an eyebrow.

"Was I talking to you? I wasn't aware." She huffed, crossing her arms in indignation as "Finch-Fletchly, Justin" made his predictable journey to the Hufflepuff table behind us.

"I was just expressing interest," she said, and I couldn't help smirking.

"So you're set for Ravenclaw, then?" I asked, as "Goldstein, Anthony" headed to the House in question and Goyle marched toward the hat to take his invariably quick sorting and join Crabbe in Slytherin. I had the satisfaction of seeing, for possibly the first time in my life, Hermione Granger without anything to say.

The hat saved her, calling her up before the silence got any more awkward.

"GRYFFINDOR!" it called out. Well, that was rather predictable, though I likely wouldn't have called it the first time around. Of course, the first time around I hadn't given the slightest bit of a damn where anybody but me was sorted, so I suppose there's that, too.

Several other less-than-important people were sorted, including at least one more change – Morag MacDougal, a young witch who I was never really sure existed, was sorted into Gryffindor instead of... I had no idea. I didn't recall her being in any of my classes last time, though, so she wasn't a Gryffindor before. Huh.

Before I knew it, it was my turn, and I made a point to put a little swagger in my steps as I walked down the aisle to meet my destiny. Last time, the hat had sorted me to Slytherin without even touching my head. This time, at least, it managed to settle fully over my blond hair without saying anything. I wondered if it meant I was hard to sort.

" _What the actual, unmitigated fuck is this!?"_  the hat bellowed in my mind. I nearly fell off the chair.

" _I beg your pardon?"_  I thought back at it. I could swear it was sputtering.

" _As well you should,"_  it said.  _"You've been sorted before, and... came back? Is that what this is?"_  it snarled, and I could feel it creeping into my thoughts. I brought up mental defenses, just as my deranged aunt had instructed, but the Sorting Hat apparently wasn't bound by mortal magic.  _"Yeah, like that's going to keep me out,"_  it snorted.  _"The war was_ won _, and you came back? For what?"_

" _Too many people I cared about died,"_  I thought back at it.  _"I couldn't let that happen."_ The hat scowled. I'm not even sure how it learned to do that, but trust me, it scowled. You live with Lucius Malfoy long enough, you learn to identify a scowl pretty quickly.

" _For a Slytherin, you really are a horrible liar,"_  it said.  _"You came back because you couldn't take the shame of having backed the wrong side."_  A sinking sensation came into my stomach just then, but I did at least attempt to defend my actions.

" _Hey, I'm not making that mistake again,"_  I said.  _"Put me in whatever house you want, but I'm not joining the Dark Lord this time around."_  It snorted again. It really was good at it for a piece of clothing with no nostrils.

" _You think that makes you a good person? That you're noble and heroic? Is that it?"_  it queried.  _"Perhaps you want to be sorted into Gryffindor this time around?"_  To my credit, I did at least keep the shudder of revulsion from being too visible, though I'm relatively certain a couple at the staff table caught it. The hat did too, of course.  _"Just as well,"_  it continued. _"You're not getting within ten feet of being sorted to the noble house of Gryffindor, not after making an 11-year-old girl cry on the train. Seriously, what the hell was that about? Miss Parkinson hasn't actually done anything this time, especially to you."_  That sinking feeling was back with a vengeance, and the mild stomache upset that had been following me ever since MacMillan called me out in the train was getting worse.

" _So I might have been wrong!"_  I admitted.  _"I didn't think that through, I was tired, and-"_  The hat cut me off.

" _I am quite aware you didn't think it through,"_  it said.  _"Not that you had any chance of getting into Ravenclaw anyway, since you apparently can't ask the question 'why' without lying to yourself about the answer."_ I must have seemed confused at that, for the hat answered an unspoken question.  _"Think about it later. You'll figure it out."_  I swore. I had a sneaking suspicion regarding where I was about to be put. However, the hat had other plans.  _"No,"_ it said. _"You'll not be going to Hufflepuff House. I really do think it might help you be that better person you keep lying to yourself about wanting to be, but unfortunately, I can't sort you there."_ This time I really was confused.

" _Can't?"_  I asked.  _"What do you mean, can't?"_

" _Young Mister Ernie MacMillan has threatened to tear me apart thread by thread, set the threads on fire, and scatter the ashes over the monkey hut at the London Zoo if I let you anywhere near Hufflepuff House,"_  the hat admitted, and I think it almost sounded apologetic.  _"I believe him, of course, and don't bother trying to convince me you can protect me, since if Dumbledore can't do it, you sure as hell can't."_ Working with logical options, I did come up with a conclusion.

" _So I_ am _going back to Slytherin, yes?"_ I asked, not sure if there even was another answer. The hat sighed.

" _I couldn't have put you anywhere else,"_ it admitted.  _"As I said before, you're already sorted."_ I opened my eyes wide at that.

" _Then why in Salazar's name did we have this conversation?"_  I asked, indignant. The hat's tone changed, and I shivered on the stool.

" _To attempt to teach you something about your actions, which I have clearly failed to do,"_ it said, and there was that scowl again.  _"I suggest you learn to take responsibility for your actions and clean up your act, or your Grandchildren's Grandchildren will never make it to another house._ SLYTHERIN!" it screamed, and of course it was audible to everyone.

Then in burst into flame and the rest of the sorting was Dumbledore and random draws from a pack of cards. Zacharius Smith challenged him to a game of rock, paper, sword, beat him, and won Professor McGonagall a lot of money.

Actually, I just left the stool and handed the hat off to "Nott, Theodore," and made my stunned way to the table with the green and silver banners, but you can see where my mind was going after my sorting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the sorting changed. Yes, I put Seamus in Slytherin - I can't recall whether Sorty's indecision on putting him in Gryffindor versus Slytherin is canon or just prevalent fanon, but it works here. Pansy, desiring popularity beyond all reason, follows the people who've been taking care of her to Hufflepuff. Morag goes to Gryffindor as a shout-out to DAYD (yes, I'm aware the author is at best a tool, but the story's still good), where McGonagall wished she was one of hers, and I'm pretty sure I put Zacharias Smith in Ravenclaw (despite it being my favorite house), as I've never been sure how he ended up in Hufflepuff in the first place, attitude like his (yes, I'm aware he's likely related to Hepzibah and thus to Hufflepuff, but then so is half of Wizarding Britain, purebloods being what they are).


	4. Settling In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Draco does not give two shits about Harry James Potter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "162. Past lives have absolutely no effect on the chain of command."  
> \- 213 Things Skippy Is No Longer Allowed to Do in the U.S. Army

I moved into the Slytherin dorms feeling more than a little out of my element. I hadn't paid attention to the rest of the sorting, merely eating my food in a mild state of shock as Dumbledore listed off the rules and welcome, welcome, welcomed us to another year at Hogwarts. I did, however, notice my room-mates once I moved in, as we had a mild round table once we'd dumped our trunks by our beds, the better to unpack at some unspecified future time.

"Good evening, fellow Slytherins," Theodore Nott said, starting off the meeting. Mild didn't mean informal, of course, it just meant that we were able to bring our hot chocolate down from the Great Hall and enjoy it while we plotted. "As you may know, I am Theodore Nott. You can call me Theo or Nott, but not Theodore." He nodded to the young black man sitting to his right.

"Blaise Zabini," he said, barely paying attention to the meeting, his feet on the table and a copy of the Daily Prophet's sports section in his hands. Trust Blaise to cultivate an air of aloof indifference in his first year. Nott scowled – nowhere near as good as father, but comparable to the Sorting Hat, at least.

"Seamus Finnegan," said the Irishman sitting between Blaise and I. "I may have missed something," he added, twiddling with his wand, "But what is it we're all doing-" sparks flew from his wand and his mug of hot chocolate exploded in his face. "here?" he finished, a little disoriented. Nott waved his hand.

"When we're done with introductions." He motioned to me to go next.

"Draco Malfoy, as you damn well know, Nott," I said, "Since we've had primary classes together since we were six." Nott scowled, putting a little more effort into it this time, and I resolved to tell him he was trying too hard. "And I'd prefer to be addressed by first name." That was new, actually, but I was seriously sick of hearing my father's name every time someone addressed me, and I needed better memories of my given name.

"Gregory Goyle," Goyle said, "and this guy's Vincent Crabbe. We've known Malf– sorry, um, Draco, for years." I smirked.

"Yeah, but you two have been best friends for something like ever before that," I pointed out. Goyle got a look on his face like he'd never really thought about it before. Nott cleared his throat, banging his mug down in an imitation of a judge calling for order.

"Anyway, this isn't an official plotting session," Nott said, "But generally, we do these sort of things once weekly here in Slytherin. It's traditional," he added, seeing Seamus' confused face. "So in the interest of tradition, is there any new business?" He looked up expectantly. Crabbe raised his hand tentatively, and for a moment, I was rather proud of him. He didn't even look to me for permission first. Then, of course, he opened his mouth.

"Harry Potter's in our year." There was muttering all around the table, and Nott shook his head sagaciously.

"Indeed," he said. "Comments? Concerns?" I raised my hand. "Draco?"

"Seriously, I could not give two shits about Harry Potter," I said. "I'd like to table the matter until he does something interesting." Nott smirked.

"Other than defeating the Dark Lord, who will return?" he said, ignoring Seamus' incredulous look. I smirked right back, having had a few more years to practice mine, and affected my best drawl.

"When he was one, sure," I said. "Like anybody can control themselves at that age. Motion to table," I added, almost as an afterthought. To my surprise, Blaise raised his hand.

"Seconded," he said. "I couldn't give two shits for anybody here, so not giving one for Potter isn't out of my way." I raised my mug in mock salute before draining it. Nott scowled. One day, that expression was going to get stuck on his face, and I hoped I was there to see it when it did.

"Fine. Motion to table has been proposed and seconded. All in favor?" Everyone but Nott and Crabbe raised their hands, with Crabbe giving Goyle an incredulous look. Goyle just shrugged. "Opposed?" Crabbe raised his hand. "Motion carries with one abstention," Nott finished. "Any other business?" To my surprise, Seamus raised his hand. "Mr. Finnegan?"

"Seamus, please," he said. "I'm not certain I'm saying this formal enough, but can we open the floor for discussion of Quidditch?" There was a round chorus of agreement, and Nott smiled.

"I'll take that as a motion to adjourn, so you all can discuss your little sport," he said pompously. "And I'll second it myself. All in favor?" The entire table, Nott included, raised hands. "Carries unanimously." At this point I realized that he'd had a quill out the entire time, and it was taking notes as we spoke. I pointed at it.

"Minutes, Theo? Really?" I'd been under the impression Slytherin House was more a nest of vipers, not a boardroom. I'd certainly never held formal meetings when I'd been the Prince of Slytherin – and then it hit me. I wasn't anymore. I'd tried to come in and take over the first-years before, and this time, since I had no desire to actually rule with an iron fist, Nott's ambition put him in charge. Huh. He smiled at me, no malice in the grin, and I suspected there was hope for him after all.

"Anyway," Seamus was saying, "I know it's been something like fifty years since a first-year made the house team, especially in Slytherin, but I'm itching to try out all the same." Crabbe and Goyle nodded their agreement, and I beamed. Even if they didn't make it as Beaters this year, Flint would keep them in mind for next year and maybe get them a bit of training in the process.

"I'm in for tryouts," Blaise said, putting down the sports section and joining the conversation. "I'm the best there's ever been with a Quaffle at my age, and that's for damn sure," he boasted. I smiled. Blaise hadn't been a bad chaser, that was for sure. Seamus, however, got a crafty glint in his eye.

"Care to place a little wager on the outcome of tryouts, then, seeing as I'll be going for chaser myself?" he asked. Blaise smirked.

"You're on, little half-blood," he said. "Most goals in tryouts gets the other a case of butterbeer. How you do that is up to you," he added. "You're a Slytherin, you'll figure it out." Seamus grinned impishly back at him.

"I won't have to," he said. "I don't intend to lose." Now it was Blaise's turn to grin.

"You sure you're not a Gryffindor?" he cracked, but lost his smile the same time Seamus lost his. "What's wrong?"

"The hat wanted to put me there," Seamus said. "It wasn't sure whether I should be there or here," he added as Crabbe and Goyle started to look offended. "I asked it to put me here, after hanging out with you three on the boats," he added. "You seemed all right, so I figured I'd take my chances with the snakes." Blaise's grin came back up, and he clapped Seamus on the back.

"And we're glad to have you, mate," he said, imitating Seamus' accent half-decently. "I was sick of losing at exploding snap anyway," he cracked, pointing at the Irishman's soot-covered mug – and the one on the one on the table, as well. Seamus, to his credit, laughed.

"We'll see," he said. "What about you, Draco? Going for Quidditch this year?"

I weighed my options. I  _was_  fighting a war, I reminded myself, and I remembered trying to balance Quidditch and espionage during my sixth year and how disastrous that was. On the other hand, keeping physically fit was always good for the war effort, and if I happened to develop some leadership skills that might keep people alive later, so much the better. I remembered seeing Wood and the other Gryffindor players at the final battle, too, so maybe the loyalty it instilled would be useful.

What finally tipped the balance in my mind was reminding myself that I'd have to do something after school was finished, and since I wasn't going to be a Professional Death Eater like my plan had been before, Professional Quidditch Star sounded like the best option.

"Seeker," I said. "I think I'll go for seeker." I smiled at Crabbe and Goyle. "Assuming these two lumps are trying for the Beater spots. Somebody has to keep bludgers off my back." They fairly beamed at the praise.

"Well, you've got the build for it," Seamus admitted, and right then, I knew Nott's attempted coup of our little group was in trouble. Seamus was charismatic enough to win the others over, and intelligent enough to know it. Maybe the little explosion-magnet was in the right house after all.

With that happy thought, I put off unpacking for another day and crawled into bed.

 


	5. Obligatory Hamlet Reference

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "For In That Sleep of Death, What Dreams May Come?" In which our protagonist does not have sweet dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "10. Not allowed to purchase anyone's soul on government time."  
> \- 213 Things Skippy Is No Longer Allowed to Do in the U.S. Army

"You're a monster!" My dreams were full of Ernie MacMillan and Pansy Parkinson, for some reason dressed in Hufflepuff yellow, chasing me through the halls of Hogwarts with whips and melee weaponry.

"You deserve everything you get!" MacMillan yelled, and Parkinson shrieked her agreement, punctuating it with a strike from her whip. The cracks and pain on my back didn't abate as they chased me into the Great Hall, but for some reason, it was full of adults.

"Did you really believe this would make us love you?" my father asked, and he was wearing his Death Eater robes and holding my mother's limp form in his arms. I shook my head to clear the false vision, as my mother had been alive after the final battle. My turning brought me face to face with a charred corpse walking upright and a fat teenager with oddly lifeless eyes.

"Shouldn'a left us," Crabbe breathed, and his voice was as ash on the storm. Goyle stood mute, a hellish green light in his dead vision.

Behind them lay the table of the dead, with fifty students, teachers and other wizards on it. That didn't even count the bodies of the Death Eaters, most of whom were people I'd known growing up.

"You turned your back on everything our parents were," Theo Nott's voice accused, and I saw him standing over his father's corpse, anger overcoming tears.

"You fled like a coward, and Slytherin's bad name will continue forever when they can't find you," another voice accused, and I saw Blaise's handsome face. I vaguely recalled him returning to the battle alongside Slughorn and the reinforcements – just like Blaise to wait until a battle's outcome is sure before taking sides. And yet, he was right – I  _had_ fled from the consequences of my actions. I  _was_  a coward.

"You finally admit it to yourself?" Ernie sneered, cracking another whip slash across my back. Surely someone had set fire to me in my sleep, for a dream-whip could never burn as this one did. "Not like it was a surprise to me. Anyone who had to take out their aggression on an 11-year-old couldn't be anything else." Pansy snickered next to him, an older Pansy, back in Slytherin green.

"And yet, I should really thank you, Draco Lucius Malfoy," a high-pitched, yet still masculine, voice said from somewhere behind me. My blood froze and my heart seized. Somehow I forced myself to turn around, and there he was, rising to his feet from the floor without stopping, like a vampire might.

"You're dead," I said, ignoring the inanity of that statement in a dream where half the people fit that descriptor. He laughed that high-pitched laugh, the one that gave three generations nightmares.

"Not anymore, Draco," he said, smiling, and Merlin help me if it wasn't the warmest I'd ever seen. That, more than anything, scared me. "I thought you were useless, a spoiled child of a spoiled man, and yet, here you are, serving me again." I snorted, feeling brave for the first time in this dream.

"Serve you? I know what lies down that road," I said. Voldemort's lipless mouth opened in silent laughter.

"My resurrection, apparently," he said, "Since as you've no doubt figured out," he added, then he thundered, "I LIVE AGAIN!" His tongue flicked out, and I was reminded uncomfortably of his snake Nagini. "Because of you, Draco," he added, calm again. "I live again because of you." He pointed at my left arm.

A black brand, more tattoo than scar, curled its way around it. A snake – and now I saw it  _was_  Nagini – twisting and turning before entering a skull and coming out its mouth. The Dark Mark, I thought, and then the snake came alive, rearing up off my arm and biting at me. I jumped back, bringing my gaze up to meet the Dark Lord's in shock as the snake bit me again and again, and I screamed in pain as agony sharper than any whip could bring consumed my thoughts.

The last thing I remembered as I bolted upright in bed, checking feverishly for snakebites, the Dark Mark and even whip-marks on my back and finding none, were Voldemort's glowing red eyes staring deep into my thoughts.

He was right. Voldemort was right. I'd doomed us all.


	6. My Godfather the Potions Master

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Draco plots world domination and Hermione Granger actually manages to keep her mouth shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "98. The proper response to a chemical weapon attack is not "Tell my chain of command what I really think about them, and then poke holes in their masks."  
> \- 213 Things Skippy Is No Longer Allowed to Do in the U.S. Army

"There will be no silly wand-waving in this class, so most of you will not grasp the majestic art that is potions making," my Godfather said a few days later, gazing specifically at Harry Potter. His little sycophants, Granger and Weasley, were trying their best to make him pay attention, but clearly, Potter didn't particularly get it.

"However," he continued, for those select few who possess the predisposition..." Salazar's blood, the man drawls more than I do. This time, he was looking at me, which might have been favoritism. I'd worked hard last time to prove it wasn't, but it's not like anyone believed me. "I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even put a stopper in death." He paused, staring down Potter, who was dutifully taking notes and baying attention only to what was said rather than what was important.

"Ah, yes. Mister Potter. Our new... celebrity," my Godfather drawled. "Tell me, what would I get if I added powdered asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

"I don't know, sir," Potter said, clearly nervous. I almost felt sorry for him. Then again, Professor Snape was right – he _did_  get fame and adulation everywhere else he went. My Godfather raised one eybrow.

"No? Very well, what is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?" Potter shook his head at that, too, though Granger's hand was trying its hardest to scratch against the ceiling. "And where would I find a bezoar?" Potter looked on the edge of making a smark remark, which I knew would just turn my Godfather against him even more.

I couldn't stand the little brat (he got more tolerable as he got older, but still), but being on the receiving end of Professor Snape's wrath isn't something I'd wish on anyone who didn't actually deserve it. Not anymore, anyway. I raised my hand.

"Clearly, fame isn't... everything," Professor Snape remarked. "Yes, Mister Malfoy?"

"Sir, there's no way Potter could know the answers to those, since he was raised by Muggles," I said, and took great satisfaction in watching Granger put her hand down. I'd outmaneuvered her, of course, since she, Muggle-born herself, couldn't answer anymore without embarrassing her fellow Gryffindor. "Do you mind if I take a shot at them?" He looked annoyed, before I added, "For the glory of Slytherin House, of course?" A cold smirk came to his lips then.

"Very well, Mister Malfoy. For the glory of Slytherin House, answer the questions. What would I get if I added powdered asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

"Assuming the infusion also contained the juice from sopophorous beans, a sloth brain and valerian root, you would end up with the Draught of Living Death," I recalled. Snape's lip caught, and I almost detected a smile.

"Which is?" he pressed.

"A sleeping potion strong enough to put you in a coma," I clarified, having brewed it somewhat successfully under Slughorn my sixth year. I would have beat Potter for that damn Felix Felicius, too, if I hadn't been distracted. Snape cleared his throat.

"That's correct, Mister Malfoy. A point to Slytherin. And the difference between wolfsbane and monkshood?" I smiled in a predatory manner, remembering the essay he'd set on werewolves while subbing for Lupin during third-year.

"Same thing, Professor," I said, and as he began to open his mouth, "And they're used in the Wolfsbane Potion, which allows a werewolf to keep its sanity while transformed." He shut his mouth quickly.

"Another point to Slytherin, then," he admitted. "And the bezoar? Where would I find one of those?"

"In the stomach of a goat, though there's probably one in that cupboard over there," I drawled, pointing at the supply cabinet. "That is, if you needed one now." Snape curled his lip.

"Thank you, Mister Malfoy. Three more points for Slytherin, bringing your total to five for those of you in this class who are incapable of even the most basic of maths." Here, he looked at Weasley. "A bezoar, as Mr. Malfoy has alluded, is a cure for most poisons, and is described on page seven of  _Magical Draughts and Potions_ , with which you had better become familiar if you intend to pass my class this year." Yes, definitely looking at Weasley.

"Now, pair up. You're going to be brewing something significantly less complicated than either of the potions Mister Malfoy mentioned, as both are far beyond the talents of any first-year."

Students scrambled to find partners, and I motioned Crabbe and Goyle together instead of picking one of them myself. After a moment's hesitation, I moved over to the bushy-haired busybody glaring at Potter and Weasley as they paired themselves off.

"Granger. Partner with me," I said, causing her to nearly knock her cauldron off the table.

"Why?" she hissed. "So you can mock me all period?" I made a face, which I swear really was a winning smile even if she couldn't appreciate it at the time.

"Well, yes, but surely you don't think a Slytherin would have only one reason, yeah?" I asked, dropping the bait and waiting for her to take it.

"What other reason could you possibly have?" she huffed, and actually gave me her attention. Hook, line and sinker. I grinned.

"Granger, I can't stand you personally, and I'm sure the feeling's mutual," I started, holding up a hand to forestall her righteous indignition. "Personally, I think you're an insufferable know-it-all," I added. "But part of that's because you're the smartest witch in our year, and probably the smartest person in this classroom with the possible exception of Professor Snape," I added, and watched her expression change as I drew in conspiratorially. "I've been making potions since I was five," I added, and wasn't entirely lying. I'd certainly been doing so for six or seven years by that point. "Between the two of us, we could set a Hogwarts record in this subject that could stand for  _centuries_."

As if to punctuate my boast, Seamus' cauldron blew up, and I heard our professor's outcry of "For Merlin's sake, Finnegan, you haven't even started yet! You are a menace!" I locked eyes with Granger.

"Up for it, Granger?" She smiled frostily.

"Fine, but we're making this interesting," she said. "When I score higher than you on our Potions N.E.W.T., you'll admit I'm more intelligent than you in front of the whole school and relinquish my winnings to me," she said.

"What winnings?" I asked.

"A thousand galleons," she quoted, and I bit back the urge to whistle.

"You don't  _have_  a thousand galleons," I pointed out. "And it would have to go both ways." She smiled.

"N.E.W.T.s aren't until seventh year," she said. "I'm sure I can figure something out by then." Her smile turned saccherine. "Up for it, Malfoy?" I grinned and shook the irritating Muggle-born's hand.

"Done and done. We'll make a Slytherin of you yet," I added. Her smile turned to a scowl.

"Don't count on it," she warned, and we turned our attention to the potion of the day.

* * *

As the lesson finished, and I returned our potion supplies to the cupboard while Granger comforted Weasley on something resembling a potion only tangentially, I sought out my Godfather.

"Professor?" I asked, hesitant for no readily apparent reason. He raised one thick eyebrow.

"Yes, Mr. Malfoy?" he asked, stopping momentarily in packing up the dungeon. "Do you require assistance? I had thought you were doing quite well today, actually, even shackled to Ms. Granger as you were and unable to get a word in edgewise." His sneer was half a smile, and I could tell he knew what I was doing. As long as one of us did.

"Actually, Professor, it's on that subject I'd like to talk to you," I said, pulling on the mask of the studious godson while the other students filed out of the classroom. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Granger saying something to Potter and Weasley, and Potter turned a look my way that was more appraising than anything, but I ignored him. Time for making allies later; personal power had to come first.

"I've already succeeded in making most of the potions in this book," I said, pointing at  _Magical Draughts and Potions_. "As you well know, having tutored me in most of them," I added, lest his legendary hatred for showboating did me in. His eyebrow grinned appreciatively; the rest of him betrayed nothing. I pressed on. "I was wondering if you might recommend a more advanced book to study?" If anything, the eyebrow raised higher, but he answered.

"My N.E.W.T. Students use  _Advanced Potion Making_ ," he allowed. "There's a copy or two in that cupboard there," he added, pointing toward the back of the dungeon. "Take a look through it, and buy your own if it's not too... advanced," he drawled, and I wondered if he was mocking me. "Should I expect Miss Granger to come asking for one of her own?" he added as I dutifully retrieved a battered old copy.

"No," I said. "If I get something out of it, I'll recommend she ask her parents for a copy for Christmas," I said, grinning at the idea of Granger's two dentist parents attempting to navigate Flourish and Blott's looking for a potions textbook. My Godfather even managed to crack a smile, slight though it was.

"Good," he said. "And five points to Slytherin for cunning. Was there something else?" He paused as I put the book in my bag, as if he expected me to leave. I remembered, then, that my Godfather was a talented Occlumens, and quickly thought of a way to cover my own talent plausibly.

"Yes," I said, making a show of looking around for other students. "I hate to admit a weakness," I said, conspiratorially, "But I've been having pretty terrible nightmares the last few nights." That wasn't a lie, at least – and Professor Snape didn't need to know that Occlumency wasn't actually working to block them out. He nodded.

"And you're looking for a way to get rid of them?" He asked. I nodded. "Very well, there is a textbook on Occlumency – the art of shielding and disciplining your mind – in the restricted section." He wrote out a pass. "I sincerely doubt the techniques you can pick up from a textbook will work to block out a properly-trained legilimens," he smirked proudly, "but they should help you keep the nightmares at bay before any of your housemates find out about them." I nodded, taking the pass gratefully.

"Thanks, Godfather," I said, and then he really was looking at me appraisingly. I kicked myself mentally; I'd completely taken him for granted before. I put the pass in my back along with  _Advanced Potion Making._

"Of course, Draco," he said, and his face was a mask of confusion. "You're my Godson, I could do no less." With that, the Potions Master swept out of his dungeon like a  _engorgio_ 'd bat, leaving me pondering his mood swings behind him.


	7. Look, ma, no hands!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Neville Longbottom does not hit the ground, alliances are made and that all-important sport is acknowledged to be more important than politics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "198. Not allowed to lead a coup during training missions."  
> \- 213 Things Skippy Is No Longer Allowed to Do in the U.S. Army

"Absolutely not!" Madame Hooch bellowed at Blaise and Weasley, who were, for once, united on an idea – that idea, of course, being Quidditch. I nudged Theo, who was standing next to me.

"You ask her next time," I suggested. "I heard that as 'Absolutely, Nott'." Theo chuckled as Hooch's tirade continued.

"Half of these people have never been on brooms before!" she added. "I won't have students killing themselves the first day – MISTER LONGBOTTOM! GET DOWN RIGHT NOW!" I rolled my eyes. Longbottom, apparently completely unaffected by my time-traveling shenanigans, had made off with his broom again. Up he floated, completely out of control, and half of us were barely on our brooms yet.

Come to think of it, Madame Hooch didn't even  _have_  a broom with her. Exactly how much firewhiskey did these teachers drink instead of holding planning meetings? Speaking of being shitfaced drunk, Potter immediately launched off the ground, heading toward Neville.

"Dammit, Potter, get back here! He'll be fine!" I shouted. If he got himself killed before he could off Voldemort for me, I was absolutely screwed. So was the rest of the world. Potter, of course, didn't see it that way.

"What, Malfoy? Afraid to see someone else showing off like you did in Potions?" he taunted, completely ignoring Hooch as he launched the school's aging Cleansweep Five toward Longbottom.

"Oh, for Salazar's sake," I mumbled a complaint, launching up to follow him. "You're not killing yourself on my watch, Potter. Once you off Voldemort, I don't care, but until then, your life is mine." In the background, Hooch continued screeching impotently, but I caught up with Potter as he slowed to help Longbottom.

"Guys, help!" he whinged. The broom, of course, continued to try and get away from him, and managed to succeed as we arrived. Thankfully for his arm, Potter and I were in position to catch him between us, and we twisted our hips on our brooms to lower ourselves to the ground. I caught Potter's eye over Longbottom, and caught a moment of respect in his eyes that I hadn't expected. I gave the look right back; despite it being entirely a Gryffindor thing to do, Potter had leapt to Longbottom's aide before he'd realized he could never catch his housemate on his own.

"STAY RIGHT THERE," Madame Hooch screamed at us, her usually-calm face twisted with conflicting emotions. "ON THE GROUND OR BY HELGA I WILL HAVE YOU EXPELLED!" She stormed off to the castle while Potter's friends surrounded him and my housemates looked confused.

She returned a moment later, a stern-faced Professor Minerva McGonagall at her heels. I bit back a smile and turned it into an outward groan – the Transfiguration professor was unlikely to favor her own house, as her reputation for being hard but fair was well-earned, but my housemates didn't know that and more importantly, didn't know that  _I_ knew that.

"In all my years at Hogwarts, I never," she said, though I doubted that this was anywhere near the worst thing she'd ever seen. "Nothing – nothing gives a student the right to disobey a teacher so flagrantly," she added. "Ten points each will be taken from Gryffindor and Slytherin respectively for your actions, Mister Potter, Mister Malfoy," she ignored Longbottom, but as it wasn't his fault, that seemed fair. "And I will be writing to your parents this evening." I cringed. That was going to go over well. McGonagall's face softened almost imperceptably.

"On the other hand, you both acted with admirable skill and determination," she said. "Your actions, however unwise, likely saved Mister Longbottom serious injury or worse." She sighed. "Therefore, twenty-five points will be given to each of your houses for heroism." She walked away. "And I will be monitoring the rest of this lesson to ensure nothing like this happens again," she added.

Blaise, being Blaise, picked this moment to approach Madame Hooch again.

"Ma'am, with Professor McGonagall and yourself watching, a Quidditch match wouldn't really be that unsafe, now would it?" I'm not sure where Blaise gets that innocent look from. It can't be from his mother. I swear, he actually looked bashful and drew his toe across the ground behind him. Madame Hooch put her head in her hands.

"Albus talked me out of retirement  _how?_ " she wondered aloud. "Fine," she agreed. "But at least two of you are going to have to sit out," she added. "I want a broom myself in case something goes wrong, and Mister Longbottom's broom doesn't appear to be coming back anyway." Hah! She  _can_  be taught.

"I'll volunteer," came Longbottom's nervous stammer from the ground. To my complete lack of surprise, given the previous night's conversation, Nott raised his hand as well.

"So will I, if I can commentate," he said, then at the rest of the Slytherin's looks, added an explanation. "What?" he asked. "I like the sound of my voice, don't you?" Blaise snorted.

"So, by House, then?" Weasley asked, and Blaise nodded as we made our way down to the pitch, McGonagall and Hooch trailing behind us. I'm not sure where Blaise got ahold of a quaffle, but we agreed on Quaffle-Only rules since we couldn't find any bludgers anyway. I noticed Granger and Daphne Greengrass both look relieved at that, notice each other looking the same way, and almost simultaneously put on a face of grim resolve and mount brooms.

Weasley mounted his Cleansweep like he'd been born to it (hell, it was a cheap broom, he probably had) and took the Keeper's spot at the Gryffindor goals. After a moment's conference, Tracey Davis mounted up and took her spot opposite the red-headed git. Apparently there had been some discussion between her and Greengrass; Daphne had wanted the spot because she didn't like flying, at which point Tracey reminder her that the Quaffle would be constantly flying toward the goals and if she wasn't keen on stuff hitting her in the face, perhaps she should be a chaser like the rest.

I admit, I kind of lost track of the argument at that point because I was distracted reminding myself that for Salazar's sake, we're eleven and that joke really isn't appropriate to the age group, dammit. By the time that had faded, I followed Blaise and Finnegan up to the middle of the pitch, facing Potter, Dead Thomas and, of all people, Lavender Brown.

"You're going down, Finnegan," Thomas boasted, but his eyes were smiling. Seamus smiled right back.

"Aye, it's a good thing too, or you'd never get a shot in," he said. "A pleasure to be sharing the field of battle with you gentlemen," he added, nodding to the Gryffindors. "And you too, Brown," he added as an afterthought before an indignant look could really form. Thankfully, we were saved from that completely awkward conversation – dammit, eleven! – by a whistle from down below. Apparently, Theo had learned the _sonorous_ charm while we weren't paying attention.

"GOOD MORNING, FELLOW SLYTHERINS, PROFESSORS AND HONORED OPPONENTS IN THAT OTHER HOUSE!" he bellowed. Likes the sound of his own voice, indeed. "AS YOU MIGHT HAVE PICKED UP IF YOU'VE SPENT MORE THAN FIVE MINUTES IN THE WIZARDING WORLD, THIS RED BALL IS CALLED THE QUAFFLE!" he added, pointing to a ball Longbottom was holding nervously in both hands. "MISTER LONGBOTTOM HAS SPORTINGLY AGREED TO THROW IT IN THE AIR MOMENTARILY, AND ONCE THAT HAPPENS, YOU LOT TRY YOUR DAMNEDEST TO GET IT IN THE OTHER SIDE'S HOOPS!" Theo ducked a swat from Professor McGonagall for the swearing. "NOW, I WANT TO SEE A GOOD, CLEAN MATCH!"he said. Blatant lies. "LONGBOTTOM, THROW THE DAMN BALL!" he added for good measure, ducking another swat from McGonagall. Longbottom obliged, tossing the quaffle high into the air, and then the scrum began.

"Potter has it, a good pass by the Boy-Who-Lived to Lavender Brown, dear Salazar, that girl cannot catch to save her life. Zabini has it now – that's Blaise Zabini, who's secret ambition is to play chaser for the Holyhead Harpies, but he's not pretty enough – ZABINI SCORES!" Apparently, Theo was toning it down for the actual commentary.

"Now Ron Weasley puts it back in the game, passes to MacDougal, who could take it all the way to – no, she's double-teamed by Crabbe and Goyle," eleven years old, dammit! "Those two are beaters for sure if they ever make the team, Quaffle is retrieved by Patil, who knew  _she_  could fly? She passes to Thomas, whose score attempt is blocked by Tracey Davis. Quaffle is retrieved by Draco Malfoy – not a bad catch there, though he's got more of a Seeker's build – passes to Zabini, back to Malfoy, to Finnegan – FINNEGAN SCORES! TWENTY TO NOTHING SLYTHERIN!" I smiled. I wasn't as out of practice as I thought.

"Weasley passes to Brown, Brown predictably drops it, Granger catches it, though from the look on her face, that was probably accidental – she passes to Thomas, Thomas to MacDougal, MACDOUGAL SCORES! And that's twenty to ten, still in favor of Slytherin, as Davis sends it out to Zabini, Zabini passes to Greengrass, who can catch even if she can't fly – Greengrass goes down, and the Quaffle is up in the air, Finnegan rescues it for Slytherin, he's going for the goal, he attempts the shot, WEASLEY SAVES IT! A magnificent save by Ronald 'Littlest Brother' Weasley, even I'm impressed and he's still a filthy Gryffindor, and oops, he's dropped it, but Thomas picks it up – damn good chaser, Thomas is – oh, and he'll pass to MacDougal, who's no slouch herself, and then back to Thomas, this could tie the game here, Davis isn't back to the goal after checking on Greengrass, Thomas shoots and -" I wasn't even thinking. I twisted my broom around, slamming the Cleansweep into the Quaffle and launching it all the way across the field.

"And there's a fantastic block by Draco 'My Other Broom Is A Nimbus 2000' Malfoy, and the Quaffle is going, going, gone, dammit Malfoy, if you lose our Quaffle, I'll have to stop talking, and Potter is chasing after it, LOOK AT THAT DIVE! VIKTOR KRUM COULDN'T HAVE CAUGHT THAT! BLOODY PISSING HELL! Sorry there, Professor."

I smiled. I guess Potter was going to be a seeker after all. Good. Now I had a reason to be on my team.

"And judging from the look I'm getting down here, Professor McGonagall and Madame Hooch are calling the game, and so final score, Slytherin Twenty, Other House Ten, which is how it usually is in real games anyway, at least in porport–"

"Ahem.  _Finite Incantatum._ " McGonagall could be heard even over the din of Theo's voice, and he mercifully went back to normal volume. As we descended, victorious and enjoying the Gryffindor grumbling, an older student in Slytherin uniform joined us.

"On your free period, Mister Flint?" McGonagall inquired, and he grunted his agreement. "See that you make it back to the castle before Transfiguration," she said, herding the Gryffindors on ahead. Flint – Marcus, I remembered his first name being – turned to face us.

"Not a bad game," he allowed, making a point to somehow include all of us except Greengrass. "I'm the Slytherin Quidditch captain," he said, maneuvering to show off the green and silver badge on his robes. "And after watching that, I'm thinking about putting together a reserve team in case our main team suffers any suspicious accidents," he added, and I gathered that he was speaking from past experience. "Any of you up for it?"

Seamus and Blaise's hands went up fast enough I expected to hear the crack of displaced air, and Crabbe and Goyle weren't too far behind them. I took my time, but raised mine as well. Flint smiled, not a mean feat considering his troll-like visage.

"What positions?" he asked.

"Chaser!" "Same here!" came Seamus and Blaise.

"Beater," Crabbe and Goyle added at the same time, then looked at each other and chuckled. Yes, they chuckled. Boys do not giggle. Fine. They giggled.

"Seeker," I drawled. "If I can get a half-decent broom." Theo smiled, whispering his made-up nickname for me. Flint nodded approvingly, though. He must have missed that.

"What about you, Davis? You could probably make Keeper," he said. She tossed her hair back.

"Maybe," she allowed. "If I don't find something more fun to do." Flint just shook his head.

"What could possibly be more fun than Quidditch?" he wondered aloud. I snickered. Flint was fifteen: he should have known the answer to that question by now even if Tracey was still eleven pissing years old.


	8. Mind Going Through Them Changes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a professor is temporarily a Salazar-damned cat, the fate of Pansy Parkinson is discovered, and Marcus Flint has a very bad day indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "63. Command decisions do not need to be ratified by a 2/3 majority."  
> \- 213 Things Skippy Is No Longer Allowed to Do in the U.S. Army

The day after the impromptu Quidditch match in which, I will remind you, we flattened Gryffindor – small pleasures keep morale up – Slytherin first-years had our first Transfiguration class. We filed into McGonagall's classroom in twos and threes – clearly someone had forgotton what  _file_  meant – and were interspersed here and there with Hufflepuffs, who were sharing the class with us.

Seeing Pansy Parkinson among them was enough to make me nervous, and MacMillan's scowl didn't help. He – as well as three more Hufflepuffs I barely recognized as Justin Finch-Fletchley, Hannah Abbott and Susan Bones – firmly placed themselves between Parkinson and the Slytherins, as if they were afraid we'd hex her in the middle of Transfiguration.

The old me might have, but I was more disturbed by the look of confused pain on Pansy's face. I'd never seen it there before; she was never one for showing weakness to anybody. I shook my head. At least the Hufflepuffs would take care of her. Unbidden, Dumbledore's words echoed in my head.

"Draco, years ago I knew a boy who made all the wrong choices," he'd said. Was I making them again?

"You want to stop staring over here, Malfoy?" MacMillan called out. "Haven't you done enough?" I looked around, startled. I hadn't realized I was staring, but now that he pointed it out. I bit back a pointed reply as I noticed McGonagall's bespectacled cat form sitting on the desk. Fool me twice and all that. Finnegan was having none of it, though.

"I thought we could look wherever," he brogued. "I mean, equality for all wizards, isn't that what Hufflepuff's all about?" His smile wasn't quite a Slytherin sneer, but it did the trick. MacMillan jumped to his feet.

"And if Slytherins would pull the snakes out of their arses, we might even–" what we might even do was cut off as McGonagall, transforming herself back to human form, stepped between MacMillan and Seamus.

"Mister MacMillan! Mister Finnegan! Five points each from Hufflepuff and Slytherin! And I expected better from you in particular, Mister MacMillan," she said, tossing a look that might even have been sad at Seamus. MacMillan hung his head, but I could see his glare continue through the rest of the class as we tried in vain to transfigure matchsticks into needles.

I scowled at the now-silver matchstick. Transfiguration had never been my best subject. I did consider whittling it down, but further concentration resulted in an actual needle about the same time that Seamus' matchstick exploded. Apparently, he'd managed to transfigure his matchstick into magnesium.

"All right, Seamus?" Blaise asked, getting a nod out of the accident-prone Irishman before a half-hearted glare from McGonagall. As we left class, MacMillan shouldered past me roughly.

"You'll get yours, Slytherin scum," he spat once we were in the hall. I really didn't remember him being this much of an arse. Again, however, having housemates paid off.

"Sure he will," Blaise said cheerfully, as the rest of the first-years assembled behind us. "A full stock of intelligent friends, more Galleons than even the MacMillans could dream of, and political power – that's his due, and believe me, he'll get his."

I smiled, channeling a bit of the old Malfoy behind it. If Ernie MacMillan wanted to be an ass, I could absolutely play the role of the spoiled bully. Hell, I'd just barely grown out of it myself.

"Go rot," he swore. "And take that rediculous haircut with you," he added. I scowled. The helmet of blond locks remained until I could brew up an antidote to whatever potion had been masquerading as hair gel the day I left.

"Not very friendly," I said. "Perhaps we should take this outside?" I felt a presence behind me.

"I should hope not, Mister Malfoy," came the authoritative voice of our transfiguration professor. "Now, off to lunch, all of you." She ushered us further away from the classroom and out into the courtyard before heading past us to the doors I knew led to the staff table. Unfortunately, she missed the outflow of about six older Hufflepuffs coming from the dungeons. Potions was apparently out today.

"All right, Ernie?" one of them queried. He shrugged, and the older 'Puffs followed his glare to me. They started towards us, but this time, the hand on my shoulder was a good sign.

"We've got this, Malfoy. Get the other first-years out of the way." Adrian Pucey, a beater from the Slytherin team moved his way past us, interposing himself – and most of the rest of the Slytherin team. Sensing a confrontation in the works, I took his advice.

Lunch was excellent. I'm not sure how house elves managed to make such a decent Reuben, but damn if it wasn't the best corned beef, rye and sauerkraut I've ever tasted before or since.

I even finished it before the predictable explosion – not Seamus' this time – erupted from up the table.

"ARE YOU BLOODY FUCKING KIDDING ME!" bellowed Marcus Flint, causing Dumbledore to spew Pumpkin Juice all over the staff table. Guess he'll need more Beard Club for Men if he's going to keep it that shiny white color. "THE WHOLE BLOODY TEAM?"

Professor Snape was speaking with the Quidditch Captain at the head of the table, and I could guess what was going on as soon as both the Slytherin and Hufflepuff hourglasses emptied completely. Both houses groaned loud enough to rattle furniture, while the Ravenclaws stared in outright shock and a couple of the Gryffindors – predictably, the Weasley twins – danced a little jig.

Flint, face as red as Fred and George's hair, came over to where the first-years were sitting. At risk of a slight understatement, he was not particularly happy.

"Malfoy, Zabini, Crabbe, Goyle, Finnegan," he said, swallowing. His voice was flat, betraying nothing, but that was an old Slytherin trick to avoid blowing up. "Be advised that you are no longer reserves. Practice is on Saturday at five thirty a.m. Be there." He looked over at Tracey Davis, who looked more than a little nervous at Flint's attention. "Davis, I need a Keeper. You're it if you want it." She nodded.

"What happened, Flint?" Nott was the only one willing to ask the question on all our minds. Flint shook his head.

"Apparently, the rest of the team was fighting with some Hufflepuffs over some damn thing or another," he allowed. "Three of ours are in the hospital wing, as are most of the 'Puffs. Every last one has been suspended from the team for the rest of the year," he continued, "because McGonagall and Snape couldn't get the whole story from anybody. Additionally, fifty points was taken from Slytherin – and Hufflepuff – for each participant. We lost 300, which was more than we even had," he said. "And the Hufflepuffs lost 350."

I admit it. I gulped. Hell, I'd let Death Eaters into Hogwarts and helped kill Albus bloody Dumbledore, and I'd never lost Slytherin House 300 points in one go. On the up side, hey, Quidditch!

Flint was waiting for an answer, so I nodded, conflicted. He took that as an all right, and moved on.

"Bloody Black Friday is what this is," Tracey muttered, and there were nods around the table. One pair of Gryffindors walking by, however, had other thoughts.

"Bloody hilarious is what it is, actually," said the thickest of the Weasley clan, and Potter, walking with him, laughed.

"Think this is funny, do you, Potter?" The words were out of my mouth and I was on my feet before my rational mind could process my actions. I groaned, but couldn't back down now. Potter looked spoiling for a fight, though, and I had no idea why.

"It is, a bit," he said, drawing his wand. "Care to make something of it?" Weasley, showing a degree of awareness to his surroundings he hadn't quite managed until then, pushed Potter's wand down.

"Not here, mate," he said. "Not with the Professors watching." Not with Slytherin without points to lose, he managed to avoid saying. My small esteem for him went up a bit at that.

"I agree, actually, Weasley, which may actually be a first in wizarding history," I allowed. "I'd suggest we take this somewhere else, but Potter probably has no idea what a wizard's duel is, does he?" I did my best to appear snide while my insides curdled. Was there no way to stop walking the path we'd walked before?

"Of course he does," the ginger snapped. "I'm his second. Who's yours?" I looked behind me.

"Blaise, care to second?" I drawled. Salazar's Gift to Slytherin House nodded his assent. "Blaise Zabini will second. See you on the second floor corridor at midnight, then." Weasley nodded, and Potter, probably unsure of what he was supposed to do, joined him. I let them look foolish for another second before sitting down and putting my back to them. "We're done here," I said, and was rewarded with their stomping feet.

Salazar's teeth, I was going to have to watch that temper. What the hell happened to me? I used to be kind of cool. Now I was acting like a thrice-damned Gryffindor. I busied myself writing something on a napkin, and with a flick of my wand, it folded itself into a mildly aerodynamic excuse for an aircraft and launched across the room.

I could easily defeat him, of course, and he didn't know it. I'll even admit that, had I been my real first-year self, Potter probably would have defeated me. Maybe. But were I to actually duel him now, it would be a massacre. He wouldn't even get a single charm out before I stunned him across the room.

So really, I thought, as my impromptu aircraft lodged itself in the tangled nest of hair that was the back of Argus Filch's head, I was doing him a favor.


	9. The Three Wizarding Goats Gruff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Crabbe and Goyle do not understand, and Draco is forced to improvise using quasi-Muggle faery tales

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "31. Not allowed to let sock puppets take responsibility for any of my actions."  
> \- 213 Things Skippy Is No Longer Allowed to Do in the U.S. Army

"I don't understand, Draco," Crabbe said, and I resisted the urge to ask him to quantify that thought.

"I don't even understand what I don't understand," added Goyle, with an unusual grasp of the multi-syllable thought. Now I really did have to ask.

"What, exactly, has you two confused today?" I asked, and I could hear the thoughts forcing their way through Crabbe and Goyle's heads before Crabbe spoke up.

"Why you're not down in the corridor dueling Potter," he clarified. I nodded sagely, since it was, after all, almost midnight. With it being a Friday and our not having classes the next day, we were up late playing Exploding Snap.

"Well, let's recap, shall we?" I began. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught my erstwhile second with his feet up on his foot locker, twiddling his wand in one hand while reading some magazine or other. I gave him a slight nod, then turned back to Vince and Greg. "What did I do this morning?"

"You challenged Potter to a duel," Goyle said. I snapped my fingers together and leaned forward.

"Very observant of you, Gregory," I said. "Now, does that sound like a particularly Slytherin thing to do?" Crabbe and Goyle, to their credit, shook their heads.

"So what else did I do, after Potter and Weasley finally walked away?" I asked, hoping against hope that some form of deductive reasoning and powers of observation could be beaten into these two. I had no intention of losing them again to their own stupidity. "Nothing?" I sighed.

"He sent off a note," Blaise said, without lifting his nose from his book. "As far as I could tell, it went to Filch." I nodded, and seriously, I live for that moment of dawning comprehension that shows up on Crabbe and Goyle's vacant faces some times.

"So you sent Filch to catch Potter!" Crabbe grinned. Goyle, still looked confused.

"But why do that? Isn't that kind of like admitting you're weaker than he is?" If Gregory Goyle keeps spouting off unexpected wisdom like that, one day he's going to cause me to spit some drink all over the room. I nodded.

"Some might see it that way, but since I doubt Potter will even make it to the second-floor corridor before Filch catches him, it won't matter." Goyle nodded, but I could see he wasn't satisfied. I sighed.

"Shall I tell you a story, then?" I asked. "A parable, if you will, that my father once told me?" Okay, I should feel bad lying to my friends, but part one, they're Slytherins and should probably have expected it by now, and two, it's kind of become habit by now. In any event, my father never told me any bedtime stories, and none of the ones my mother told me would be any use here.

Crabbe and Goyle both nodded. Bloody hell, now I had to actually tell them a story. Thankfully, I had one in stock. In an odd coincidence, Crabbe and Goyle themselves had ransacked the abandoned – and I shuddered just writing that, considering  _why_  it was empty – Muggle Studies classroom our seventh year, taking a few books to use as rolling papers in the Slytherin dorms. I'd happened across a book of Muggle faery tales they'd not gotten to, and it did much to ease my mind during that hellish second semester.

"This is the story of the Three Wizarding Goats Gruff," I started and watched Seamus bury a snicker behind his cards... which surprised everyone by  _not_  exploding. I shot him a glare that plainly said "shut up shut up shut up," and was about to continue when Goyle interrupted.

"Why were they gruff? Were they old or something?" he asked.

"Yeah, did someone piss in their tea?" Crabbe added. I shook my head.

"That's just the way the story's titled," I said. "Anyway, once upon a time, in a land not far from here, there lived three goats, and they were brothers. They were fairly happy living together, these wizarding goats were, until one day, their land was invaded by Muggle farmers, and they felt the need to secret themselves into hiding."

"Maybe that's why they were gruff," Goyle said. "I'd be pretty rude to people too if I'd been forced from my home." I sighed.

"Anyway," I growled, "These goats, being magic, were doing quite well on their journey until they were separated at a village. The youngest goat woke up first and decided to get on with the journey, leaving a note for his brothers."

"Well, there's a mistake right there," Seamus cut in. "Anybody who's seen a horror flick knows you never split up." After a moment of staring, we turned back to the story.

"He reached a terrifying river, which could not be crossed without risking the goat's life," I continued, and this time, it was Theo who broke in.

"Isn't this how 'The Tale of the Three Brothers' started?" he asked. I shook my head.

"Do you want to tell this story? Or shall I continue?" I asked. He grinned, and dealt an excellent hand to Seamus, who was inching slowly away from his cards in defiance of the inevitable.

"In. Any. Event." I continued, "The youngest goat was, sadly, a Squib, so he was thrilled when he found a bridge crossing the river. He began to cross, and his hooves went trip-trap, trip-trap along the cobblestones." I paused, waiting for the inevitable interruption. Surprisingly, it didn't come.

"He was confronted with a river troll, which, while as big and ferocious as their mountain cousins, are often more cunning creatures," I said. "The troll could even speak, though he may have had the intelligence of a small child." I didn't mention that a good chunk of my audience had only marginally better.

" 'Who's that trip-trapping over my bridge?' the troll asked, and his voice stank of death. The youngest troll was afraid, for though he was a strong goat, he was still a Squib and had little chance of taking on a fully-grown troll by himself." I grabbed some water from the table nearest me, taking a chance to breathe as well. Crabbe and Goyle looked spellbound, Seamus was busy getting his arse kicked by Theo at Exploding Snap, Theo was likewise busy kicking Seamus' arse at snap, and Blaise was highly amused by something in his magazine. After a moment's pause, I continued.

"Still, despite his disadvantage, he was proud of himself. 'I am the youngest Wizarding Goat Gruff,' he proclaimed, and the troll laughed. 'Gruff or not,' it said, 'you are on my bridge, and I will make a meal out of you.' " Goyle gasped. "But the youngest goat was not without intelligence, for he had been raised by a family of cunning goats. 'You could do that,' he allowed, 'but I suggest you save your appetite!' The troll laughed. 'Why would I do that?' it asked. The youngest goat smiled. 'Because my brother, who is much larger than I am, will be along shortly, and would make you a far better meal.' The troll paused to consider this new information. 'I suppose you're right,' he said, for again, trolls are not known for their intelligence. And the youngest Billy – I mean, Wizarding Goat Gruff trip-trapped past the troll and across the bridge."

Crabbe and Goyle hadn't grasped the story too much yet, but I wasn't quite to the point yet, either. I drank some more water, used to snarky quips and witty insults instead of this long narration, but pressed on shortly thereafter.

"Some time later, the second goat, a middle child, came to the bridge, following his brother's tracks. Like his younger brother, he encountered the troll, but unlike the youngest, this goat was a wizard, and more than capable of handling himself. The troll looked at him, and seeing that the youngest goat had not lied, grinned a hungry grin. 'Your brother told me you'd be coming,' it said, and smiled cruelly at the goat. 'Now, come here, that I may eat you, trip-trapping little goat.'

"Now, the middle Wizarding Goat Gruff was no slouch with his wand, despite a preference for charms and potions over curses and hexes, and he knew that he could take down the troll in a straight-up fight. But he also knew the troll had the high ground, and he was unwilling to risk his defeat when clearly there was a sneakier way to bypass this troll. So he said to the troll, 'You could do that, I'm sure, master river troll, but perhaps you should save your appetite?' The troll growled at him, for he was very hungry by now. 'Why should I do that?' it asked. The middle goat smiled. 'Because my brother, who is even larger than I am, will be along shortly, and would make you a far better meal,' the goat said.

"The troll paused, wary of a trick, but his appetite got the better of him. 'Very well,' it told the middle goat. 'Perhaps you should go on, and I will wait here for your brother.' With a polite bow – for the middle Wizarding Goat Gruff had been raised in a proud family and would always remember his manners – the middle goat trip-trapped over the bridge.

"Finally, having had a bit of a lie in, the Eldest Goat Gruff made his way to the bridge, following the tracks of his brothers. Now overwhelmed with hunger and unable to even think, the river troll flew at the Eldest Goat Gruff as soon as it saw him, intending to kill and devour him. Without even batting an eye, the eldest goat drew his wand, uttered the words ' _Avada Kedavra!_ ' and slew the troll as he charged, for no man, beast or goat can stand against the Killing Curse. With a spring in his step and a whistle on his goat lips, he trip-trapped over the bridge to join his brothers, who continued on their way unmolested." I took a deep breath. "Now, what have we learned from this story?" Crabbe was the first to say something.

"Don't fall for your enemy's tricks?" he guessed. I tilted my head, considering the answer. It wasn't where I was going with it, but it was a good answer nonetheless.

"And?" I asked, figuring acting like I had more than one right answer planned all along was the best course of action here.

"Oh!" Goyle interjected. "You're like the second goat – you could have taken out the troll, but decided to get someone else to do it!" I nodded.

"And why is that, Greg?" I asked, pushing a little harder.

"Because getting someone 'bigger,' or better at magic, or something like that, means you win without even fighting?" he guessed, and I gave it to him.

"Right in one, Goyle, though as you know Filch isn't exactly my spellcasting superior. He just has authority, which some times is as good as a wand – this is one of those cases." They both nodded. "Did we learn anything else from the story?" They shook their heads, but Blaise chimed in from behind his magazine.

" 'Choose your battles wisely' is the moral, I think," he said, and damn if Crabbe and Goyle didn't nod as if they'd never thought of that before. As if to lend credence to his remark, Seamus' entire hand exploded and Theo stifled a victory cry. The room broke into quiet laughter, and Seamus glared at us.

"Think that's funny, do you?" he asked, annoyed. "After the story you just told? Maybe you people should dress up as goats or something for Halloween, give us all a chance to laugh at you." He started to mutter something about goats not exploding in stupid stories, and I missed the look of confusion on Crabbe and Goyle's faces until they spoke up.

"Dress... up?" they asked. Seamus, smile fixed firmly on his face now that he was the center of attention for a reason not involving charcoal, explained.

"Something Muggles – and yes, some wizards as well, don't give me that scowl, Theo – do for Halloween. Dress in costumes. It's sort of a wish-fulfillment thing," he added. I nodded. Having read this fanfiction, I was entirely too familiar with that sort of thing.

"Can we do that, Draco? Can you get us something like that?" Goyle said. Crabbe snorted.

"Of course he can. We could probably do it better, 'cause we're wizards," he added haughtily, and I wasn't about to argue against him when one, I was in a dorm full of Slytherins, and two, I rather agreed with him.

"Sure," I said, resolving to owl post for some transfiguration-based candy or something. "And on that note, we should probably head to bed," I added, remembering that we now had Quidditch Practice at far too early in the morning.

As we turned the lights out to go to bed, Blaise, in the bunk next to mine, turned his head toward me.

"Is that really a Wizarding faery tale?" he murmured, quiet enough so that Crabbe, on the other side of my bunk, wouldn't hear it. I nodded, and Blaise snorted. "You're so full of shit, Draco," he said, grinning.

"This from the man who spent all night reading 'Teen Witch' and was convinced his transfiguration of the cover was good enough for us not to notice?" I shot back, equally grinning as his expression went to horrified and defensive.

"It's just for the skin-care products!" he complained. "I have a delicate skin condition." I snickered, then sobered up a bit.

"Anything for getting this rediculous stuff out of my hair?" I asked, seriously.

"Good night, Draco," he said, a smile on his face as the lights went out.


	10. All Hallow's Eviscerations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Draco wears the head of a goat, Quirrell faints, and Hermione Jean Granger manages not to die a horrible death, no thanks to that complete arse Ronald Weasley and that tosser Harry Potter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "70. I am not authorized to prescribe any form of medication."  
> \- 213 Things Skippy Is No Longer Allowed to Do in the U.S. Army

After a completely grueling Quidditch practice, which I admit I relished even if my body really, really did not, I huffed and puffed (not to be confused with Hufflepuffing, which I wouldn't get to do for at least a couple of years yet) up to the Owlery and order a couple... items.

The first was a Honeydukes catelog, from which I thought I might be able to order at the very least some Halloween candy for the dorm and, possibly, something I'd seen in their windows at the Diagon Alley shop – transfiguration-based candies.

Secondly, I'd managed to catch Blaise at a weak point after practice and coaxed the name of an antidote to the glue I had apparently decided to style my hair with a few weeks prior, so that was coming as soon as bloody possible. I was  _not_  keeping my hair in this ridiculous helmet for a second longer than necessary.

* * *

Halloween came sooner than expected, and sadly, my hair gel remover wasn't among the owls I received before it. On the positive side, the previous evening, I'd received three doses of Honeydukes' patented "Get Your Goat Chocolates," which contained charms to temporarily change one's head into a goat. Crabbe, Goyle and I would have three hours in which to make Seamus laugh and Blaise cry manly tears.

Other tears, of course, were absolutely not my fault this time. After watching Granger and I rule the Potions classroom despite the verbal snipes at each other, Weasley was spoiling for a fight. Potter, having apparently learned a lesson from the botched Midnight Duel – which apparently he'd avoided getting in trouble for, somehow – warned him against picking one with me. Unfortunately, that left his own housemate to confront. Harry Potter: brave kid, not the brightest star in the sky when it came to social interaction, though.

"All I'm saying is I don't understand why you're partnered with him instead of one of us!" Weasley was yelling, making a huge scene outside the Charms classroom as I left it even as Potter tried to pull him back from doing something horribly stupid... as per usual. "I mean, you could have partnered with anybody in our house, but no, you had to partner with that slick git!" I reflexively checked my hair, but the movement drew Weasley's attention to me.

"And you!" he continued, ignoring Potter's increasingly frustrated attempts to make him see reason. "Why would you choose to partner with Hermione instead of someone in your own house? Finneganwas free!" I paused, as if considering it – really, I was waiting for perfect timing.

"Because she's better at Potions than Seamus Finnegan," I said, and yes – perfect timing. Something Irish exploded from the Charms classroom I'd just left, followed by a string of what I assumed were curses in Gaelic. "And I rather like being top of the class half the time," I added, getting the slightest bit of a smile out of Granger through the tears that were starting to build, and putting me on the receiving end of Potter's rather calculating look. Maybe h **e** should have been in Slytherin too. With that rather amused thought, I walked off, not caring to continue the conversation with Weasley any longer.

"Why don't you just go with him?" Weasley asked, and I could only assume he was talking to Granger. "You're not even a real Gryffindor anyway," he added, and I heard her burst into tears and rush off. I admit, I was uncomfortably reminded of Pansy Parkinson, and that got hammered home as Ernie MacMillan shouldered past me.

"You do that, Malfoy?" he asked. I shook my head.

"Not this time, MacMillan. Weasley's fault," I said. That's right. Slytherin House, where The Buck Stops... Over There Somewhere. Behind That Tree. No, The Far One. Yeah. There. MacMillan glared at me some more.

"Good," he said. "Making one eleven-year-old girl cry per term should be more than enough, I would think." He stormed off. One day, I was going to figure him out. It just wasn't today.

The remainder of the day passed uneventfully, as even Sprout good-naturedly tailored her lesson to the common enchantments of pumpkins rather than the bubotubers we had been studying. I assume she, like the entire class, was ready for the feast and wasn't interested in putting her mind elsewhere.

At a quarter to six, I popped my chocolate, and headed down to the feast itself, checking my face in the mirror as I reached the great hall. I was, indeed, goat-headed. A Malfoy does not go off half-cocked at every catcall, thankfully, so I was prepared, I thought. Plus, I'd have my faithful companions, Crabbe and Goyle with me, so... what were they doing sitting at the Slytherin Table, heads completely human-shaped and looking glum?

"Crabbe, Goyle, would you care to explain why I am the only person in this room with a goat-shaped head?" I asked, biting my tongue to keep from yelling at them. Goyle even looked ashamed.

"We, uh, switched our candy bags with a couple Gryffindors' this morning," he said. Crabbe nodded.

"Yeah, Weasley and Potter had huge bags and ours were pretty small, so we switched 'em." Oh, crap, I thought, and as if on cue, two goat-headed Gryffindors walked into the great hall. Oh crap. I ducked. I admit it, I hid like a shamed little child.

"Draco, what are you doing?" Crabbe asked. I shushed him.

"You screwed this up, the least you could do is use your body to block their view," I snarled, and somehow, it came out just fine despite my different vocal cords. Great transfiguration job, I thought. And I could eat, too, though I just picked at my food. Something was nagging at the back of my mind, something from the first time around, perhaps? I wasn't sure.

I did see a few other costumes at the feast. Seamus, true to his word to join us in costume, had found a black cape, a mask and a ridiculous hat somewhere and had his wand in a highly-oversized sheath obviously meant for a sword. I admit, I didn't get the reference, but I figured it was a Muggle thing. Over at the Hufflepuff table, Susan Bones had on a blue plaid dress and her hair in pigtails – again, more references I didn't get, but apparently her companions did – an overall-clad scarecrow I eventually realized was Justin Finch-Fletchly, Hannah Abbott dressed as a lion, and Ernie MacMillan in obviously-enchanted full plate armor and carrying an axe were all laughing uproariously at some joke.

Even the Ravenclaws got into the act a bit; I saw Zacharius Smith dressed as Sir Cadogan from Beedle the Bard – finally, something in my idiom! – and over at the Gryffindor table Neville Longbottom had managed to find a toad costume. I'm sure I would have found more costumes, but I was interrupted by a loud, slightly-effeminate and altogether cowardly Defense Against the Dark Arts professor's entrance and my own mind kicking me in the back of the head with what I'd forgotten.

"TROLL! TROLL IN THE DUNGEONS!" Quirrell screamed as he ran in, before screeching to a halt before the staff table. "Thought you ought to know," he added before fainting dead away. The room erupted into panic before Dumbledore stood and bellowed for quiet.

The room dropped immediately into silence, and looking at the old man's face, I could see, finally, the man who had dueled the Dark Lord Grindelwald to a standstill years ago, and knew from the determined look in his eyes and the way he held the Elder Wand so authoritatively why he was the only one the Dark Lord ever feared.

"Prefects, escort your students back to your houses. Staff, come with me to the dungeons." He said it with absolute calm, as if encountering a troll were no more trouble for him than for the Eldest Wizarding Goat Gruff in my story. I somehow doubted Dumbledore would use the Killing Curse on it, though. That seemed mildly out of character for him.

As we filed out, and I brushed past MacMillan as he followed his prefect to Hufflepuff, my mind smacked me with the second half of my remembrance. Damn Ronald Weasley, he'd basically disowned Granger, and Potter with him, and now she was out crying somewhere completely oblivious to the troll because her Heroic Gryffindor Friends had abandoned her.

I winced. I looked around for a staff member, but they'd all gone. I winced again. I hesitated for just a moment – she  _was_  a Muggle-born, I really wasn't supposed to care whether she lived or died – and then slipped away from the line and headed down toward the hallway I'd heard her run off to. Damn Weasleys and Potters and Gryffindors and stupid consciences.

Halfway down the hall, I saw the open door to the girl's bathroom, water leaking out from it, and a piercing scream echoing from the doorway. The troll is not in the dungeon, my rational mind processed while it went about shutting down the rest of my mind as a precaution against fear. I advanced slowly into the bathroom and found I had, apparently, been wrong about the complete arse and the Boy-Who-Lived. They had not abandoned their friend, nor run in fear from the rumors of the troll as I expected.

They were, however, frozen in fear as the twelve-foot mountain troll menaced my Potions partner.

"Can we move this along, gentlemen?" I asked, and two goat heads turned in shock toward me. "Today, please?" I pointed my wand at the troll, unsure if I'd even known a simple cutting charm as a first-year. Too late to worry about it now. " _DIFFINDO!_ " I bellowed, and a ray of light sped toward the troll, doing absolutely nothing against its thick hide. Thankfully, Weasley and Potter managed to pick up the charm fairly quickly, and cries of " _DIFFINDO!_ " echoed from the tiled walls. Even Granger got in on the action, rolling out of the way of the troll's club and grabbing her own wand.

Still, we were getting nowhere, and I wondered how these two had ever managed to kill it the first time. I knew I couldn't use the Killing Curse on it – entirely aside from blowing my cover as a first-year by casting a bloody Unforgivable curse, I hadn't ever managed to cast that particular spell. I could keep a half-decent Cruciatus going for a minute or two based on simple rage – never anything as cruel as Aunt Bellatrix – and my Imperius was second to none, but I truly didn't want to kill anyone or anything enough to make  _Avada Kedavra_ work. Thankfully, I had other spells up my sleeve. One, even, had left a huge scar there, and I resolved to find out where Potter had learned it.

"Concentrate on its throat, all together," Granger yelled. "Maybe if all our spells hit it at once, it will wear it down!" I thought no such thing, but mentally wished her ten points to Gryffindor for actually using her brain – a rare trait in that house, to be sure.

I pointed my wand at the troll's throat, and after a few cutting charms to aim, whispered the spell Potter had cast on me in a bathroom all those years into the future: " _Sectumsempra!_ " Blood fountained from the troll's throat and it pitched forward, hitting the ground in a mighty crash as Granger brought her arms up to her mouth in horror. I was a little sick, as well. A threat to us all it might have been, but I truly did not want to kill anything.

I was saved from my nausea by Professors Dumbledore, McGonagall and a limping Snape arriving in the doorway.

"What on earth happened here?" McGonagall asked as we all turned to face her.

"Poetic irony, Professor?" I asked, in my most innocent voice. She clearly didn't get the joke, but Granger and Potter snorted as if stifling laughter, and Dumbledore even smiled. To my complete surprise, my Godfather had to turn around, and I saw the hint of a smile on his lips before he did. I had no idea where the second-most-favored servant of the Dark Lord had read a Muggle faery tale, but I certainly wasn't going to complain.

"If you could stow the sarcasm, Mister Malfoy, and explain what actually happened, perhaps we could get to the bottom of this?" McGonagall suggested, clearly miffed at both our actions and her being left out of the joke. I opened my mouth, closed it again, opened it once more to say something, and closed it, having thought better of it. Thankfully, the benefits of having an insufferable know-it-all around is that, well, she just doesn't shut up.

"I went looking for the troll," Granger said, lying straight to McGonagall's face as well as any Slytherin and making me more than a little proud that I'd rubbed off on her. "I've read about them and thought I could handle it myself. I was wrong, and it nearly killed me," she said, pouring on the regret. I was glad Snape wasn't looking at her. "Then Harry, Ron and Draco came along–"

"We were worried about her," Potter cut in, and Weasley nodded his assent, looking completely confused as to why I was there. I nodded my agreement, then took over.

"My father taught me the cutting charm as a means of self-defense," I claimed, and it was even sort of true, "And I tried it on the troll. Potter and Weasley joined in, and Granger was able to get around the troll and give us a bit of guidance, since the charms weren't really getting through its skin." Dumbledore nodded sagely.

"I am to assume, then, that you concentrated your spellwork on this area here?" he questioned, gesturing to the two-inch gash I'd cut into the troll's neck, which was still bleeding the beast out. We all nodded our assent, and he nodded as well, gravely. "As this incident involved two of our houses, Professors, I think I will take care of repercussions for this?" Professor Snape nodded, and after a moment, McGonagall did as well. The old man turned to us.

"Miss Granger, that was a very foolish thing you did," he admonished. "But I think you know that already?" She nodded. "Then I shall not assign you detention, and merely take five points from Gryffindor for a lesson hard learned," he said, and she nodded grimly. "Be that as it may, not many first-years could take on a fully-grown mountain troll and survive, let alone emerge victorious," he congratulated. "Therefore, it seems only fitting that I award five points to Gryffindor for each of you, Mister Potter, Mister Weasley, Miss Granger, and five more to Slytherin for you, Mister Malfoy." I was surprised. Except for excellence in Potions and occasionally in Charms, I never earned points for my house.

"Thank you, sir," I said, actually meaning the respect in my voice for probably the first time ever. He smiled.

"And I would appreciate if you would send me the catalogue you found those transfiguration candies in," he added. "My brother Aberforth would likely be very interested in them." His smile thinned. "Now, off to bed with you all. Pip pip."

Not my worst Halloween ever, I must admit. Professor Snape, after examining the wound, looked very intensely at me, and I could feel the first tendrils of curious Legilimency, but I pushed them aside. Later that evening, as I opened Advanced Potion-Making for the first time, I understood why. In the spidery handwriting I recognized as my Godfather's, which marked the book completely throughout with recipes and spells, I found one incantation written in the margins halfway through the book.

"Sectumsempra," I read quietly. "For enemies." So that's where Potter had picked it up – from this textbook belonging, apparently, to the "Half-Blood Prince," an odd name for my Godfather to adopt, to be sure. I wondered why. I marveled at the foolishness of casting an untried spell in the middle of a duel, but reasoned it had been remarkably effective for him. I remembered the pain that spell had caused, the violent wounds, the scarring, and my Godfather's strong voice casting a spell that sounded almost like singing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that just happened. My mind, it goes into strange places during November.


	11. Quidditch, Bitches!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a Death Eater attacks Harry Potter's broom and Draco learns of the hiding of the Philosopher's Stone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "184. When operating a military vehicle I may not attempt something 'I saw in a cartoon'."  
> \- 213 Things Skippy Is No Longer Allowed to Do in the U.S. Army

The similarities between Quidditch and a dogfight are less eerie when you're actually playing Quidditch than they are later, but let it not be said that the game is too much less dangerous. Sure, nobody is blasting green light and eldritch death at you, but get smacked too hard with a bludger – like the one that one of the Weasley Twins slammed my way not a minute in to the Gryffindor / Slytherin game, and you'll fall to your serious bodily harm never the less.

I dodged. The twins were no slouches when it came to Beater skill, but one, I was riding my own Nimbus 2000 – only Potter could really keep up with me – and two, I had plenty of practice. Plus, you know, having actually been in a dogfight thanks to the Dark Lord's desire to put me in as much danger as possible that final year of combat, I had some skill dodging Weasley-driven damage.

"And Malfoy dodges a rather fast bludger there, hit of course by one of Gryffindor's finest Weasley twins," Lee Jordan commentated. "This is, according to Madame Hooch, the first match in more than fifty years to have a first-year playing, and the first in more than a century to have more than one," he added.

"Right you are, Lee, and due to the events of Black Friday, the Slytherin Team is almost entirely first-years," Theo Nott added, clearly enjoying the sound of his own voice once more. "Only team captain Marcus Flint remains on the team from the older students – oh, and that's Blaise Zabani with the Quaffle now, heading toward the Gryffindor goals where Keeper and Team Captain Oliver Wood spent all last year shutting down the chasers on the opposing teams, and Zabini will shoot–"

"And a brilliant block by Wood," Jordan cut in. "But the real story here are the two first-year Seekers, Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter, who are both playing in their first match here. They're both on Nimbus 2000s, too, which should put them pretty evenly matched." Theo nodded.

"Absolutely, Lee, though I'm interested to see how Potter does in an actual game, since he'd never been on a broom before Hogwarts," he added. Jordan snorted.

"I think with a little Gryffindor courage, he'll make it through – and Quidditch is in his blood, too," he added. "Harry's dad James was a top-notch player in his time, too." I let their continuous drone filter into one part of my head and spent most of my attention on finding that frustrating little golden ball.

Across the field, I could see Potter doing the same. Good, this should be a challenge. He was damn good, as I recalled, even as a first-year – though admittedly, I hadn't played against him until my second year. I looked over to the Slytherin stands, half expecting to see my father there, watching, but there was nothing. No shock of blonde hair, no flash off his silver cane. Only the nearly-emotionless face of my Godfather, a few finely dressed alumni, and our Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.

"It looks like Potter's seen the Snitch!" Jordan cried, and I yanked my attention back to the game. Sure enough, the Boy-Who-Lived was in a deep dive, and I started to follow him, before I realized there was nothing there. I pulled up quickly, before I could lose my attention, and ducked another bludger before resuming my methodical scan of the field.

"And a classic Wronski Feint by Potter – not sure where he learned that, probably Oliver Wood – but Malfoy doesn't fall for it," Theo said, upstaging Jordan a bit.

"Right you are, Theodore," Jordan grumbled, "But with Gryffindor in the lead 50 to 20, Malfoy can't let Potter catch the Snitch now. Every minute it stays out, Gryffindor's three lovely Chasers will keep scoring until the Snitch doesn't even matter – speaking of which, that's Angelina Johnson on her way toward the Slytherin goals, Tracey Davis looking rather out of her element as the Keeper, and – yes, she barely saved that one, but Katie Bell recovers it and looks to be going for another shot."

I furiously looked around for the Snitch, but the golden ball of doom wasn't showing itself. Across the field, Potter was doing the same, with the same look of confused frustration. Meanwhile, Tracey managed to block Bell's shot, but Alicia Spinnet picked up the Quaffle this time.

"And it looks like the Gryffindor Chasers are just mobbing Slytherin Keeper Tracey Davis," Theo said. "She's done an excellent job holding them off so far, but unless someone does something, that score's just going to keep getting more lopsided–" There was a resounding crack, sudden silence, and then a muted thud.

"It looks like Katie Bell is down," Jordan said, somberly, and suddenly, the whiffling of the Quaffle was gone. "Slytherin Beaters Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle teamed up and sent both bludgers heading toward her at once, knocking her off and cracking her broom, and yes, Oliver Wood has called a time-out." For one, it looked like Nott had nothing to say. Both captains flew down to the pitch along with Madam Hooch and Professor McGonagall. Things were tense for a moment, and even Crabbe and Goyle looked a little sheepish.

Then the stands – Slytherin and Gryffindor supporters alike – erupted in cheers as Katie Bell, assisted by her head of house, got up and limped off the field. I exhaled in relief – I'd already had to watch Katie Bell almost die because of me once. I had no desire to relieve that scene, but it looked like she only had a broken leg, maybe even just a sprain.

After a quick discussion, it looked like Wood didn't have an alternate for Bell, so Gryffindor faced the choice of playing one Chaser down or forfeiting. I don't know why Madame Hooch even bothered asking - "get it or die trying" was Oliver Wood's motto, and quitting wasn't even an option. I smiled as both captains rose into the air, glaring at each other – but Flint's glare carried with it the vaguest hints of approval. He didn't want to win. Marcus Flint wanted to conquer.

"And we're good to go in five, four, three, two, one!" Theo counted down, and Madame Hooch blew her whistle. "And it's Zabini with the Quaffle, and he passes to Finnegan, and him back to Marcus Flint, and Spinnet and Johnson can't keep up with this power trio!" Theo was, clearly, as biased as his counterpart, but there was something fair about that, to be sure.

Meanwhile, I resumed searching for the Snitch. As I heard the repeated clang of goals being scored, I ignored the now-tied game and watched the sky, the pitch – and there it was. Glinting like a miniature sun as it hovered over the staff table, the Golden Snitch seemed like it was just mocking us. Potter saw it, too – I could tell. He straightened on his broom, met my gaze, and the moment was over.

We were off, and there was nothing in my world except my broom, the Snitch and Potter. We were on the way to destruction, both of us pushing our Nimbus 2000s – Nimbi 2000? – to top speed, rocketing between the stands and the pitch as the elusive golden ball sped away from us. We were twin engines of nothing but speed, red and gold, green and silver, and I had never felt more alive than I did at this point, racing for the Snitch with Harry Potter.

Almost too soon, it was over. I heard gasps, then Potter fell behind. I couldn't even look: the Snitch was still speeding away from me and I continued to chase it down. For what seemed like an eternity, I, with hand outstretched, chased the ball, furious at Potter for abandoning me – and then he was behind me, trying to catch up, but our brooms were matched. I could not fail, and as my fingers closed around the golden ball and a cheer rose from half the stands, I scowled.

We hadn't even made it to the ground before people came out from both teams, and Potter, getting off his broom, was the target of my ire.

"I thought I was going to play a real game today, Potter," I yelled, and he looked at me, nearly in shock. "But no, you go and back off." I was this close to shoving him, but I rather wanted to avoid detention. "Did you think you didn't have to try? That because I was a reserve player, you were somehow better?" Potter opened his mouth to say something, but he was interrupted by someone speaking for him.

"Come off it, Malfoy," the mop of red hair – Ron Weasley, I realized – said. "He only nearly got hexed off his broom by your bloody head of house." Potter shushed him.

"Good game," he said, bitterly, and the Gryffindors left the field. I stood confused. Why would my Godfather hex Potter off his broom? I felt a rush of pride for a moment that he would cheat to help me, then it left – he knew as well as I did how much pride meant to me and that I'd never ask him to do that. There had to be something else at work.

After showers, I made my way down to the dungeon. Professor Snape's office wasn't too far from the Potions classroom itself; I'd been able to find it before, certainly.

"Professor?" I tentatively asked, knocking at the iron-shod door. It opened a crack, revealing my Godfather's hooked nose.

"Yes, Mister Malfoy?" he asked, opening the door further to reveal his sallow face. "Can I help you, godson?" he added, a bit more quietly, as if afraid someone might overhear the Potions Master acting like a human being.

"May I come in?" I asked, respectfully. He nodded, and opened the door fully to allow me in. The office was as functional as his classroom, shelves upon shelves stacked to the ceiling with potions ingredients, rare herbs and completely unidentifiable substances. A tiny desk sat in the center, a dry quill lying next to a stoppered bottle of ink. He sat down behind it.

"Did you have a question about the assignment due Monday, Draco?" he asked, and I shook my head.

"Actually, Godfather, I had another question," I allowed. I had to be careful here; I didn't want to accuse my Godfather of anything, especially since I knew he really hadn't done anything. He raised a black eyebrow.

"Go on," he said. I did.

"Why would Ron Weasley assume you were hexing Potter's broom?" I asked carefully, seeing the look of anger writ large over his face. "Especially as I know you wouldn't interfere in a match like that when you know how much winning meant to me?" He softened a bit.

"One moment," he said. "I need to verify something first." That was all the warning I got before his mind stabbed into mine. I through up shields as quickly as I could, but his probe was nothing like Bellatrix's. Aunt Bella stabbed straight in and kept pushing as strongly as she could, thinking to overwhelm the mind's defenses – and given Aunt Bellatrix's formidable mind, she often succeeded.

Professor Snape – even thinking of him as my Godfather could give him an opening – struck multiple places at once, pulling out quickly and striking again elsewhere, and as fast as my mind could conjure Occlumency shields, his Legilimency found new areas to strike. It was like fighting six battles at once in my head, and I did so as best I could, devoting a fifth of my mind to locking down memories in hardened Occlumency bunkers, where a sustained assault would be needed to find them, and using the remainder of my mind to conjure weaker shields to ward off each assault.

As soon as I realized that he was only staying long enough in each mental location to distract me, I weakened those shields – and as soon as Professor Snape noticed that, he suddenly struck faster and more. Eight battles became sixteen, which became thirty-two before my shields began to collapse and I felt him picking at my hardened barriers. With one final push, I concentrated all of my reserves save the one area at which he was currently pushing, and pushed back into his mind. Suddenly, all pressure was gone.

"Well done, Draco," he said. "I might, under other circumstances, wonder how your Occlumency progressed so far. Obviously you have learned from more than a mere book." I nodded, but kept my secrets. He smiled thinly.

"What I am about to tell you is a secret known only to a few members of the staff," he said. "Professor Dumbledore is hiding at this very minute an substance known alternatively as the Philosopher's Stone or the Sorcerer's Stone, depending on who you ask."

I boggled. I'd never known. I'd heard something about Potter and Voldemort, or maybe Quirrell, or something like that first year, but had just assumed it was some cock-and-bull gossip to inflate Potter's ego and get him out of trouble. My Godfather nodded.

"I can't prove it yet, as the Stone is guarded by many teachers, but Professor Quirrell is trying to steal it," he said. I nodded. That made sense, if he'd been working for Voldemort. But I needed him to say it.

"Why would Professor Quirrell want to steal the Stone?" I asked. "He's a Hogwarts Professor. Couldn't he just ask to use some of the Elixer of Life, or for some gold, or something?" Professor Snape shook his greasy head.

"I don't think he wants it for himself," he said. "I..." he paused, as if unsure to continue. "You must not tell your father what I am about to speculate," he said. "Can you do that for me, Draco?" He was placing an awful lot of trust in me. "It would put him in a dangerous position if he knew." There it was. The bait for the hook. Thankfully, I had no intention of telling my father anything about the stone.

"I promise not to tell him, Godfather," I said. He nodded.

"I have been watching Professor Quirrell rather closely," he said. "Upon his return from Albania, he was no longer acting like the charming Muggle Studies professor we all knew and... reminded me more of... other acquaintences of mine." He grimaced. "Do you know your father's acquaintences? Mister Mulciber, Mister Dolohov? For that matter, your friends Crabbe and Goyle's fathers?" I swallowed.

"Death Eaters," I said flatly. "You're saying Professor Quirrell is a Death Eater?" He nodded.

"I am under the impression that he returned from Albania with a mission," Professor Snape drawled. This time I was one step ahead of him.

"Quirrell is fetching the Philosopher's Stone for the Dark Lord," I guessed, and was rewarded with a nod. "And you're trying to stop him, because you really are Dumbledore's man, not a double-agent like you played at during the war." He grimaced, but continued nodding.

"If I hear you've breathed a word of this to your father, I will have to obliviate you and deny everything," he said. "And I assure you, Draco, I am more than capable of doing that without getting caught. I lifted the corner of my mouth in a parody of a smile.

"My lips are sealed, Godfather. But you've not completely answered my question." His thin smile returned.

"Your Potions partner caught me muttering a counter-curse, trying to keep Potter's broom stable," he said. "Naturally, she assumed the worst – and I believe she is responsible for my robe suddenly catching fire," he added, "For which I will be taking five points from Gryffindor, to be sure." He grinned ferally. "Fortunately, her blundering also broke Quirrell's eye contact. You see, a Death Eater has little desire to see the boy who conquered the Dark Lord at a year old alive and in the way at eleven." My grin got a bit wider.

"That does answer my question, Professor. I think I'll be going now," I added. He nodded, then returned to his work at the table. As I was halfway out the door, I turned. "Godfather," I said, and he looked up. "Thanks for coming to the match. It was nice to have family there." He smiled thinly as I shut the door.


	12. Letters from Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a Draco forms an alliance with the Boy-Who-Lived, Narcissa Malfoy sends some advice from the home front, and Draco's bad month continues to get worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "123. I should not teach other soldiers to say offensive and crude things in Albanian, under the guise of teaching them how to say potentially useful phrases."  
> \- 213 Things Skippy Is No Longer Allowed to Do in the U.S. Army

"Granger, I need to meet with Potter," I said, as I passed her my magnum opus, three feet of parchment on the uses of Dragon's Blood in Potions. She snorted as she passed the stack of papers up to the next row.

"Traditionally, one simply says something to the person with whom one wishes to speak," she snipped. "Something along the lines of 'Hey, Harry, can we talk for a moment?' " I rolled my eyes.

"And exactly how well do you think that would have gone?" I said. "If Professor Snape doesn't just dock points for me yelling across the room, do you think your fellow Gryffindors would take well to me chatting up the Boy-Who-Lived? What about my Slytherin friends?" I sneered. "No, I need you to arrange the meeting."

"Fine," she said, sighing. "Where and when?" I started to answer her, but she cut me off. "And it needs to be before lights out. He's not falling for any Midnight Duel / Filch shenanigans again." I had the grace to blush a bit.

"Fine. Immediately after lunch, head to the seventh floor. You know the portrait of Barnabus the Barmy trying to teach those trolls to dance?" She nodded. "Walk back and forth by there three times, thinking 'I need to speak with Draco Malfoy,' and you'll figure it out from there." She opened her mouth to say something else, but I quickly flipped my eyes from hers to my Godfather, warningly, and she shut up.

* * *

"What is this place?" Weasley was asking as he walked into the Room. I was sitting at a high-backed chair at what for all the world looked like a negotiating table as the Golden Trio walked in. Predictably, Granger had an answer.

"Merlin, Draco, you've found the Room of Requirement!" she said, in awe. "I read about it in–"

" _Hogwarts: A History,_ " Weasley and Potter finished for her. I smirked.

"It's also known as the Come and Go Room, if that helps," I added, drawing their attention back to me. "Shut the door." As they did so, two additional chairs appeared on Potter's side of the table. "And please, sit down. I'd offer you something to eat, but it looks like you've just come from lunch," I added, my smirk getting even wider as I cut into the lovely steak the House Elves had prepared for me. Potter cut to the chase.

"You wanted to meet, Malfoy?" he asked, rather redundantly. I finished chewing – just because I should keep something resembling table manners, for one, and for two, because it was fun watching Weasley's face match his hair.

"Indeed I did," I said, washing down my steak with a glass of juice. The elves still stubbornly refused to serve me wine here. Damn being eleven again. "I wanted to let you know who actually hexed your broom Saturday," I added, before Weasley's head could explode.

"We know what happened!" the ginger said. "Snape cursed the broom, Hermione set his robes on fire, and you stole the Snitch from him!" I rolled my eyes.

"Alternately, I could tell you what actually happened, if you're at all interested," I said. Granger, at least, had the courtesy to look interested, and Potter nodded.

"Let's hear your side, then, go on," he said. I smiled.

"Quirrell cursed you, Professor Snape was trying to save you, and when Granger set my Godfather's robes on fire, it distracted Quirrell, breaking his eye contact. Quirrell, not Professor Snape, is trying to steal the Philosopher's Stone." Potter tilted his head.

"What's the Philosopher's Stone?" he asked, and Granger gasped.

"Draco, can this room summon books from elsewhere in the castle?" she asked, but I didn't have to answer as a huge, mouldy tome appeared – thwack – on the table in front of us. "I checked this out months ago for a bit of light reading," she explained – as if that explained anything, though admittedly with Granger it sort of did. "There it is," she said, pausing. "Nicholas Flamel is the only known maker of the Philosopher's Stone, which turns base metals into gold and produces the Elixer of Immortality." I nodded.

"Can you imagine what would happen if, say, someone working toward the Dark Lord's return, got a hold of that?" I asked, quasi-rhetorically. Weasley shuddered and Granger grimaced, but Potter looked interested.

"You're saying Professor Quirrell is working for Voldemort?" he asked, and this time, I shuddered along with Weasley and Granger.

"Could you, perhaps, not say his name?" I asked. Memories of his pale face, glowing eyes and cruelty flooded back, and I tried to hold them back. It was as much a losing battle as my mental showdown with Snape was earlier. Potter shook his head.

"Afraid of the name, too?" he asked, and I didn't correct him. "But if Quirrell is trying to steal it, why hasn't he made a move yet?" I shook my head.

"My Godfather is trying to protect it, along with probably the other heads of houses," I said. Potter looked confused."

"I'm sorry, your Godfather?" he asked. Apparently he'd missed that earlier, being so focused on the Philosopher's Stone.

"Professor Snape is my Godfather," I said, and Weasley blanched.

"He's your Godfather? No wonder you turned out so–" and Granger kicked him, hard. That was kind of satisfying, actually. I never thought the bushy-haired Muggle-born had it in her. I snorted, though.

"Yes, Weasley, and that makes him family, which I'm actually quite convinced you understand," I sneered. He looked insulted for a moment, but it was clear he wasn't entirely sure why he was supposed to feel that way. Chalk one up for my side.

"In any event, it's being guarded," I said. Potter nodded.

"By a three-headed dog named Fluffy," he said. "Hagrid's helping guard it too," he added, then started. "Wait! On Halloween, Professor Snape had an injured leg." I was startled. I'd completely forgotten.

"What if Quirrell let the troll in?" Granger suggested. "Then, once the teachers were headed to the dungeons, he went to the third-floor corridor?" Weasley nodded.

"Then Snape must have headed him off," he said, looking mildly queasy about attributing anything heroic to my Godfather. "And got bit for his troubles," he added, looking a little too thrilled by it. Well, maybe if he wasn't constantly skiving off in class, my Godfather would treat him better.

"Why are you telling us all this, Malfoy?" Potter asked. I took a long swig of my juice, finishing it off.

"I'm glad you asked that, Potter, because I was wondering the same thing." I leaned over the table, putting down the glass. "I want in on whatever it is you're planning. It's going to be epic, and I want along for the ride."

"No, Harry, we can't," Weasley said. "We promised Hagrid we wouldn't tell anybody, and we've already broke that promise." Granger shook her head.

"Hagrid didn't know about Quirrell trying to steal it," she said, "And just look at how he reacted when Harry tried to convince him Professor Snape was trying to steal the Stone." Potter nodded.

"Hermione's right, having more information is a good thing," he said. "Malfoy, you're in on this. We'll meet here after the Holidays and compare notes, yeah?" I nodded, then decided to add something more to this.

"If we're going after Quirrell, you should probably learn to defend yourself," I said. "It would be a shame if the Boy-Who-Lived managed to track down the Death Eater and then had nothing to do with him once he caught him." Potter nodded.

"There's a few books on combat spells in the library," Granger said, and added, "And we could stand to learn a bit more about Flamel while we're at it," to Weasley's groan.

"We've already checked through the library entirely," he whinged. Goyle, you've got some competition here. First-runner-up whinger of the year goes to Ronald Something Weasley. Granger just smirked, and I really was amused at how much I was rubbing off on her.

"Not in the restricted section," she said. "Anyway, I'm heading home for Christmas Hols, so you three should have ample time to search for information without any interference," she added, casting a look my way. She was right, too – none of the Slytherin first-years were staying at Hogwarts, and most of the upper years were going home as well. We nodded our agreement, and I suggested they should leave first.

"Wouldn't want to be seen wandering the halls with a bunch of Gryffindors," I drawled. Granger rolled her eyes, and Salazar help me, Potter even smiled. They left.

A few minutes later, I made my exit as well, and wasn't twenty feet down the corridor before my family's enormous Eagle Owl came flying down the corridor, dropping a letter in my startled hands. Apparently, I'd had mail at lunch. He didn't even bother to stay for treats; rather, he winged his way back to the owlery.

I opened the letter, recognizing the Malfoy crest on the wax seal. Judging by the handwriting, it was from my mother.

 _Dearest Draco,_  it read.  _I hear many things about your first term at Hogwarts, and not all of them are good. While your father and I are quite proud of you for making the Slytherin Quidditch team – and congratulations to you for your victory against Gryffindor; I'm sorry I couldn't make it – other things that reach our ears are more disturbing._

_I'm told that you and a trio of Gryffindors confronted a troll last Halloween. While I am proud of you for defeating a creature many times your size, I – and your father – am concerned about your association with these three. While Harry Potter comes from a prestigious family, his parents' opposition to the Dark Lord could put your father in an awkward situation should you continue to grow closer. As for Ronald Weasley, you know your father's opinion of that family._

_I should not even have to speak to you in regards to the Muggle-born Witch. You know where we stand on that subject. Apparently, however, I must talk to you regardless – your Godfather tells us he is quite proud of you for your Potions grade, so imagine our surprise when, from other sources, we find you voluntarily have spent much of this year with her? Tread carefully, Draco dearest. Your family's pride is at stake, as is our honor. More than one, I should say, for you are half a Black in addition to being a Malfoy, and a Black is Always Pure._

_I think it might be best if you stay at Hogwarts over the Holidays and re-examine your priorities, Draco. Your father is in a right state, and saying the wrong thing around him just now would be unwise. We both, of course, miss you dearly, but I think it might be for the best._

_Love always,_

_Your mother._

I put away the letter with fingers almost numb. My mother was trying to warn me of more than just my father's foul temper – with the comment about a Black being Always Pure, she was telling me how close my father was to disowning me like the Blacks did to Cousin Sirius before he went all evil. I would have to accomplish much over Christmas Holidays; this was all going faster than I had ever intended, and I was not liking the pace at which it was proceeding.

I swallowed my worries and fears, however. It would not do to show the other Slytherins any weakness. Blaise might let me get away with it – he understood family eccentricities better than anyone else in the dorm – and Seamus was barely a Slytherin anyway, but I could only imagine what would happen if Theo saw me falter. Needless to say, it would not be good.

I walked down to the dungeons, hoping to catch my Godfather before class. I needed to ask him a favor.


	13. Spinner's End and Diagon Alley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Professor Severus Snape is host to his Godson over the Holidays, and many Christmas Presents are purchased for diverse friends and family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "106. I may not trade my rifle for any of the following: Cigarettes, booze, sexual favors, Kalishnikovs, Soviet Armored vehicles, small children, or bootleg CDs."  
> \- 213 Things Skippy Is No Longer Allowed to Do in the U.S. Army

"Thank you for allowing me to stay here over the Holidays, Godfather," I said, shouldering a bag that should have been more heavy, filled as it was with clothing and such. Thank Salazar for undetectable extension charms and heavy canvas rucksacks. Also in my bag was hair-gel-curse-remover, which had conveniently arrive this morning before my Godfather and I had walked down to Hogsmeade. I had every intention of using it tonight.

He'd pulled me Side-Along to Spinner's End, where a little house on a corner stood as the unassuming Snape residence. Now I stood in the doorway, and he was just inside, as if waiting for me to make a comment on how poor this home was, and I'd done just the opposite.

"It meets my needs," he said, followng my gaze to the tiny flat. "And I am glad to have you here, Draco, if only for the holidays. You'll find a spare room upstairs, to the right – I apologize that it may not meet your standards," he added sardonically. "It has, after all, been some time since I entertained guests." I smiled and trooped upstairs.

The spare room was a little dusty, to be sure, but I was staying in a Wizard's house. There was little chance of receiving an owl from the Ministry if I used a couple cleaning charms to make it habitable. Otherwise, it was no worse a room than my dormitory in the Slytherin dungeons. If anything, it was nice to have the small window looking out onto Muggle London.

I dropped my bag off on my now-much-cleaner bed and grabbed the bottle of curse-remover. Heading out into the hall, I called down to my Godfather.

"Godfather, which of these doors is the water closet?" I asked, and he walked upstairs.

"On the end, there," he said, then eyed the bottle of curse-remover. "You do realize I could have brewed something for you, had you asked?" he said, smiling thinly at my grimace. "At this juncture, however, I would appreciate it if you would hold off on your grooming issues – it has been a long time since I've had a proper shower, and I think we would all appreciate it if I took care of that first," he said.

I realized that, hovering over potions all day as he did, the grease which seemed so habitual was likely not his by choice. I nodded, heading downstairs to take inventory of the house while my Godfather cleaned himself.

I found a bookshelf to occupy me – a term of partnering with Granger in Potions had conditioned me a little more than I liked, but between that and my Godfather's Potions book, I gravitated toward the written word more than I ever had before. I thumbed across several shelves of wizarding books and one shelf of Muggle ones – the complete works of Shakespeare I recognized from Seamus' description. On the bottom shelf, I found a Hogwarts Yearbook dated much earlier this century. On the front was an inscribed name: Eileen Prince.

Of course, I thought. My Godfather would have been proud of being a 'Half-Blood Prince.' That's where the name must have come from.

Another Prince caught my eye as I scanned the bookshelf, and fully an hour later, my Godfather descended the stairs in clean robes and much less greasy hair to find me sitting in an armchair, fire crackling merrily in the fireplace, reading Machiavelli.

"How very Slytherin of you," my Godfather said. "I see you've discovered my bookshelf." I smiled, then remembered something.

"Actually, Godfather, I have a book of yours, I think," I said, carefully closing  _The Prince_ on a bookmark – Granger had beaten library discipline into me all but literally – and rushing upstairs. I came down with a much dog-eared copy of  _Advanced Potion-Making._ "I think this is yours, Godfather," I said, presenting the book to him. "I can buy a new copy in Diagon Alley later on." He stared at it.

"That explains about the troll, certainly," he said. "Let me guess:  _sectumsempra_?" I nodded, and he shook his head. "Keep it, Draco," he added. "Buy a new one for the classroom, if you like. Just be sure to come to me with any questions before testing out an unknown spell," he added. Like anyone would be foolish enough just to test a spell they read in a book without knowing what it did. I nodded.

"Would it be possible to go to Diagon Alley later on, then?" I asked. "Not tonight, of course, but perhaps tomorrow?" He nodded.

"I have some shopping to do myself – potions ingredients and the like," he said. "And given the recent improvement in your awareness of others," he added, "and don't deny it," he continued as I scowled, "I might assume you wish to purchase presents for your fellow Slytherins?" I nodded, not meeting his eyes. "Very well, we shall go on the morrow," he added. Now I did look at him.

"Godfather, you've already done much for me, but I have another favor to ask, if I may?" I asked. He raised an eyebrow, but motioned me to continue. Wordlessly, I handed him my mother's letter, and watched his face darken as he read it. When he was finished, he handed the letter back to me.

"You're worried about Lucius and Narcissa disowning you," he said. It wasn't a question, but I nodded anyway. "And you want me to take you to Gringotts and make sure you have something to live on if they do," he added, perceptively. I nodded again. He paused for a moment, then nodded his head once. "Of course I'll assist you, Draco," he said again. "As your Godfather, I'm glad you came to me with this." He walked into the kitchen, and I heard the fwoosh of gas jets lighting. "Did you want bell peppers with your sausage?" he asked.

I shook my head. If someone had told me I'd ever see Severus Snape cooking, I might have hexed them for stupidity. My Godfather, the Potions Master, stuck his head back out the door.

"Well?" he said. I nodded, and he nodded. We did a lot of nodding, this little family of ours. "Go fix your hair," he said. "I'll take care of dinner." And with that, he was back in the kitchen, as at home in that element as he might have been in a potions lab. I walked back upstairs, still shaking my head.

"Dobby," I whispered, as soon as I was back in my room. There was a little pop, and suddenly a house-elf was cringing on my bed.

"Master Draco calls and Dobby comes," he whimpered. Suddenly I felt absolutely awful. I'd been a shit to everyone around me, sure, but they were human beings. I'd been less than human to this pathetic little elf who now cringed away from me on my bed. "Does Master Draco need to vent his frustrations on Dobby again, now that Master Draco is not at school?" he asked. No, I thought, I really, really didn't want to do that.

"No, Dobby, please stop cringing," I said, as kindly as I could. He looked at me in complete surprise. "I need you to get me my Gringott's key, if you could, Dobby," I said. He stood up then, determination in his eyes.

"Who are you and why do you look like Master Draco?" he queried, shaking a fist in my face. "Master will punish Dobby for his stupidity if Dobby falls for trick like this!" I winced. How horrible had I been, if merely treating Dobby like he was a poor servant made him doubt my identity completely. I held my hands out.

"It's me, Dobby. I'm Draco Malfoy," I said. "You've known me since I was a baby." Dobby cringed.

"Master Draco has never been polite to Dobby. How do I know you're really him?" he asked, as if expecting to be beaten for his questioning. I sighed, and took out my wand. Dobby shrieked and began crying, burying his head in his hands. I poked at him with the wand.

"Do you recognize this wand, Dobby?" I asked, firmly. "You were with my father when we bought it from Mr. Ollivander's shop." The house elf removed one hand from his face to peer at the wand with one eye.

"Hawthorn and Unicorn Hair, is it?" Dobby asked. I nodded, and he straightened up. "Master Draco? It really is you?" I nodded again. "Dobby is getting Master Draco's key from his nightstand." I held out a hand.

"Dobby, can you keep this secret from my father?" I asked. He started trembling.

"I can, Master Draco, but only if Master Draco orders it. Otherwise I have to tell Master Lucius anything he asks." I nodded.

"Dobby, I order you to take my Gringotts key from Malfoy Manor, telling no one what you have done. I will give you a duplicate to replace it with when you return, which I order you to do. Do you understand?" I said. The terrified little house elf nodded, then, Salazar help me, he saluted.

"Dobby is following Master Draco's orders and Dobby is telling no one," he said, then disapparated with a pop. I grabbed a shirt from my rucksack and transfigured it into a replica key, then stuck a permanency charm on it. It should last for at least the rest of term, which was all I really needed. Dobby re-appeared.

"Dobby is having Master Draco's key," he said, holding the brass key out to me. I took it.

"Thank you, Dobby," I said, and watched him squirm.

"Master Draco has never thanked Dobby before," he said. "Dobby is used to death threats instead," he added, and I'd swear he was going for maximum guilt trip here. I smirked.

"Don't push it, Dobby," I said, handing him the replica key. "And keep your head down, okay? I'd be put out if you got hurt," I added, remembering the Charge of the Hogwarts Elves and the bullfrog voice of the Noble Elf of Black leading them on to battle, and having no desire to be on the receiving end of that kind of crusade. Dobby even managed to crack a smile before disapparating this time.

* * *

Diagon Alley was bustling these few days before Christmas, and after a short stop at Gringotts, I made my way to Quality Quidditch Supplies to take care of most of my Christmas Shopping. I knew this was likely the last Christmas I'd be able to give expensive gifts, so I decided to set peoples' expectations low to start with. I'd managed to set up a sizable account for myself, apart from my parents and without their ability to make withdrawals from it – as it was in my Godfather's name – and would probably be fine to live for a while on it, especially if I was frugal. Still, it never hurt to be cautious, and I knew I'd be missing having plenty of Galleons available sooner rather than later.

A set each of shinguards and pads designed especially for Beaters went off via owl for Crabbe and Goyle, along with a congratulatory note on our first game and the hopes that one day, we'd all play together professionally. A man can dream.

Seamus would be the proud recipient of an Ireland jersey, something I assumed he already had about 10 of, but could probably use more. Also in the shop was a hand-held loudspeaker imbued with a  _sonorus_  charm. I knew Theo probably wasn't expecting a gift, but I couldn't pass it by.

For Blaise, I wasn't entirely sure of what to get. A subscription to various magazines was right out – apparently, he already had the one he wanted. Beyond that, I didn't really know him as well as I'd once thought I did. I put him to the back of my mind and moved on to the next store.

Flourish and Blott's was that store, and I picked up the copy of  _Advanced Potion-Making_ for the Potions classroom to replace the one my Godfather had now gifted me. After a moment's hesitation, I bought a second copy, fully intending to send it to Granger to even the odds between us. I'd had my term of advantage.

Unfortunately, having bought a gift for Granger, I felt somewhat obligated to purchase something for the other two members of the Golden Trio. Strangely, Weasley was the easier of the two. I made a short side trip to Knockturn Alley, not at all worried about the image I was sending. I laughed at the irony of finding the perfect gift for a Weasley down in this haven of the Dark Arts, but as I ducked in to the scrivener/historian shop simply marked "Nobility," I knew I was right.

I left with a hand-etched, framed copy of the Weasley family crest from many years back, which cost a pretty penny. I knew it was probably nicer than anything else in that shabby house of theirs, but on the other hand, it would appeal to their family pride. I attached a note to the package, which simply read, "To my fellow troll-slayer: 'More balls than brains' is in your blood, but damn if I wasn't thankful for it when push came to shove. Truce?" I didn't have high hopes for it, but at least I tried.

While waiting for the scrivener, I made a second side-trip within the Alley itself, to Borgin and Burkes, where I picked up something I'd had my eye on for a while at that point. Lucius Malfoy might have objected to his son picking up the tool of a common thief, but a Hand of Glory was nothing to sniff at and, combined with Potter's invisibility cloak if my suspicions were correct about when he got that gift, was a recipe for great and daring deeds under the cover of darkness. It sounded like a fair descriptor of what happens when Slytherins and Gryffindors work together anyway.

With my Godfather still occupied in the apothecary, I let him know I was going to wander a little more. He didn't need to know where I was going, so I didn't tell him. I was thankful my robes were close enough to Muggle-wear today as to not draw attention, as I crossed the street from the Leaky Cauldron and entered a Muggle bookshop.

Potter ended up with a map of the London Underground, which I figured would serve him well if he was living with Muggles. I resolved to buy him a year-long pass, as well. Ready accessabilty to the tube could only benefit the Boy-Who-Lived if he ever had to make a quick getaway.

Then I saw it – the perfect gift for Blaise. I took it to the counter and paid with Muggle money – a strange thing, paper money, but the Goblins must have been getting a hell of an exchange rate for it because they were more than glad to be rid of it in favor of Galleons – and accepted the curious offer of gift-wrapping, opting for a simple green paper rather than the probably-more-festive red wrapping paper with snowmen in top hats and corncob pipes.

I attached a note, saying "Ignore that the author is a Muggle and just read it; you'll enjoy it. Happy Christmas – D.M." to the package and returned to Diagon Alley to send it, stopping only to get Potter's tube pass along the way. Gods alone knew what I was doing buying a copy of Machiavelli's  _The Prince_  for Blaise Zabini, but it worked so well, I was satisfied.

I realized, as I returned to the alley, that I'd not purchased a gift for my Godfather. I frantically scanned the alley, wondering what to get him. Books were out – he had access to any book he wanted via the Hogwarts library and his own shelf. I debated getting him a snake or something, but worried it would end up the potions ingredients. Likewise, potions ingredients themselves seemed rather pedestrian, and Quidditch supplies were right out.

I walked by Eeylops Owl Emporium and took a look at the owls. A tiny barn owl winked up at me, far too cheerful for the snow outside, and hooted. I passed it by, passing by the eagle owls and the burrowing owls as well until I found what I was looking for in the back of the store. I paid for her, asked the clerk to send it round to Spinner's End come Christmas, and rejoined my Godfather.

I showed him the book for the Library, and the stack of packages, adding my thanks for introducing me to Muggle literature (and my promise to never, ever tell my father). At his strange look, I showed him Blaise's package, before sending them all to their intended recipients via owl. I wasn't sure what my Godfather made of me sending parcels to three Gryffindors, but he didn't say anything.

* * *

On Christmas Morning, as my Godfather and I drank coffee at his kitchen table, there was a knock at the door. My Godfather answered it, finding a gentleman delivering a covered cage with a note that said "Severus Snape." He brought it into the kitchen, finding it hooted a bit as he jangled the cage and placed it on the table, and raised an eyebrow at me.

"I assume you had something to do with this?" he asked. I smiled, and gestured to him to unveil the cage. He did, with a dramatic flourish, and narrowed his eyes.

The tiniest Screech Owl I had ever laid eyes on was hooting merrily in the cage at my Godfather, and her feathers were glossy black. Her huge eyes even looked as dark as my Godfather's own.

"What's... what's her name?" He asked, and I realized he was almost overcome with emotion. I tilted my head.

"The Eeylops clerk said her name was Lily," I said, and nearly missed the sudden intake of breath on my Godfather's side of the table. I continued, acting oblivious and filing away the reaction to that name for later. "He said nobody had wanted to buy her, because she was flighty and has a bit of a temper," I added. "But apparently, once you get to know her, she's very devoted." He sighed.

"She would be..." he said, almost wistfully, then shook his head. "Thank you, Draco, and Happy Christmas," he added, before grabbing a package from under the chair. "I'm afraid my gift may have been a trifle last-minute, but I hope it serves you well," he said. I unwrapped it slowly and found a book, completely hand-written, lying within. My Godfather looked at me.

"These are the notes I kept my seventh year," he said. "Your Potions book has many from my sixth, but I learned much in my final year at Hogwarts that I didn't want to share with future students," he added. "I will thank you to use that knowledge with the same discretion you would use  _Advanced Potion-Making_ ," he said, looking stern at me. It came easily to him.

Lily hooted her agreement, and my Godfather took her out of her cage. She immediately gravitated to his shoulder, black owl on black robes, and rubbed against the curtain of his hair.

"Go, then," he said. "You received other gifts this morning via Owl-Post, and you'll be wanting to open them." I looked around for his, but he shook his head. "Dumbledore sent me a fruitcake, and McGonagall a holiday card," he said. "It's nice to know I have friends on staff," he added, half-scowling, half smiling.

I cheerfully began opening presents, noting the usual bit of Quidditch gear from Crabbe and Goyle, a copy of  _Quidditch Through the Ages_  from Seamus – a newer edition than I had, to be sure, which was nice of him, a Snitch from Theo, which was both princely and useless. Blaise sent only a note, but when I read it, I boggled.

"My fellow conspirator," his note read. "My actual gift will have to wait until school returns, as I have the means to smuggle it in to Hogwarts and you, if rumor is true, don't at present. Still, we'll have to find somewhere for me to remind you how to use a sword, since you're getting one. - Blaise Zabini."

Even Granger had sent me something – a fat Muggle book entitled "The Way Things Work," with an interesting (frozen, because hey, Muggle book) image involving mammoths on the front cover – and a note.

"Draco – didn't know about the Owl orders until you said something about it in your note, but thank you for the gift. I had the owl bring this in return; it might give you some insight into the Muggle world. Dad loves it. - Hermione Granger. P.S.: Would it kill you to use my first name in a Christmas Card? Dad thought it was for him for some reason."

I chuckled at that. It was somewhat unlikely that I would be using Granger's first name any time soon. We weren't friends, after all. Just Potions partners. I could keep telling myself that all year long if I wanted to. My Godfather raised that infuriating eyebrow of his.

"Exchanging Christmas gifts now, are we?" he drawled. "What would your father think?" I paled even more so than usual, but he then winked. "Worry not, Godson," he said. "One more secret for me to keep." I smiled, and his thin grin met it.

"I'll try not to overburden the Head of Slytherin with secrets to keep," I drawled back. "Truly, it must be entirely out of character for you." He scowled, but good-naturedly. "Honestly, Godfather, thank you for that." He nodded, then the scowl darkened as an absolutely gorgeous snowy owl knocked politely at the window.

"Potter, too?" he observed, as he opened the window to the cold air outside and let the bird in. It immediately shuffled over to me, and presented a letter to me before huddling by the fire. Lily hooted at her warningly, but the snowy owl just shrugged.

"Malfoy," the letter began. "I was kind of surprised to find a gift from you under my tree – but not as surprised as Ron was. He's turning all kinds of red now trying to figure out how to thank you without actually thanking you. As for me, I just wrote a letter. Brilliant idea with the tube map and pass; if my Aunt and Uncle ever let me out of the house, I'll have a lot of use for that this summer. Thanks, and thanks for Ron's gift too. Sincerely, Harry Potter." I smirked, then saw the postscript. "P.S.: Please give the attached to your Godfather?" Wordlessly, I handed what looked like a Christmas card to the obviously-surprised Potions Master.

"Professor Snape," he read aloud. "I hope you and Draco are having excellent holidays. Hogwarts is not quite the same without you here. Merry Christmas! Sincerely, Harry Potter." He paused. "What the Devil is going on here!" he asked, and I sincerely hope he didn't expect an answer. Lily hooted at him, and he moved back to cook some lunch, but I noticed he didn't toss the card in the fire like I expected him to.


	14. Getting Back to Hogwarts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hagrid has a Dragon, Neville Longbottom grows a spine, and Draco finally gets detention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "62. 'It is better to beg forgiveness than to ask permission' no longer applies to Specialist Schwarz."  
> \- 213 Things Skippy Is No Longer Allowed to Do in the U.S. Army

In hindsight, I should have realized we'd get caught. Anything as risky as smuggling a bleeding Norweigan Ridgeback to the top of the Astronomy tower on a school night was destined to attract Filch, and despite my general ability to talk my way out of anything, I didn't have much of a rapport with the caretaker or that damn cat of his.

Potter had shown little interest in meeting after the holidays, as promised, and I ended up following him and Granger – Weasley, for some reason, was in the hospital wing – one night to insist he not put it off any further. They tromped down to Hagrid's house – my suspicions regarding the timeline of Potter's invisibility cloak were confirmed, but apparently they'd forgotten about leaving footprints in the snow.

Anyway, I got to the hut just in time to watch that half-giant loading what to all intents and purposes appeared to be a baby dragon into a crate. Then I felt a tapping on my shoulder.

"You shouldn't be here, Malfoy," came the unsure voice of... Neville Longbottom? Really? "If you get them in trouble, I'll fight you." He put up his fists – and having seen his so-called wandwork, the fists were likely his most formidable weapons. I put out my hands in a placating gesture – I'd seen Hagrid use it on small, frightened animals in Care of Magical Creatures, so it would probably work on Longbottom.

"You've got it all wrong, Longbottom," I drawled. "I don't care about the dragon, I'm just trying to keep an appointment." He kept his fists up.

"I don't believe you!" he said, then the look of confusion on his face grew. "Dragon?" he queried. "What dragon?" At that point, the door opened, and Potter and Granger stepped out, carrying the crate between them. "Harry? Hermione? What are you doing?" Longbottom asked. I rolled my eyes.

"Look, I'll prove I don't care," I said. "Longbottom, go help Potter on his end. I'll take this end with Granger." I moved to help the other struggling first-years carry the crate, which occasionally rocked with a growling noise. I glared at the gamekeeper. "Hagrid, you owe me one." He nodded, mildly dumbfounded.

I don't know how we managed to make it to the Astronomy tower without being seen, or at least, heard. Four dragonhide-clad gentlemen on broomsticks can't be entirely unobtrusive, either, I imagine. Still, somehow, we managed it. We were even congratulating ourselves on our daring feat when we left the tower... right into Filch.

"Oh, my, we are in trouble," he said, and I'd swear, he managed to drawl better than Snape or I ever could.

Which is why I found myself, two nights later, standing at the edge of the Forbidden Forest – in which students were not actually allowed to go, I reminded myself, lest the name need to be changed to the Permitted Forest – with a lantern in hand, wand out, with Potter standing next to me leading the largest boarhound I'd seen in many years.

"I suppose you should probably know, Fang's a great ruddy coward," Hagrid said. "But you'll be alright. Not much in there that will bother you with him around." I gulped a bit – not being able to use too much combat magic without blowing my secret was going to be a pain here, but at least it wasn't the full moon. I didn't want to deal with werewolves just yet.

"Now, Neville, Hermione, you're with me – we'll go this way," he pointed vaguely left. "And Harry, you and Malf- Draco go that way," he gestured vaguely right. "We're looking for whatever is killing Unicorns." Ah, yes. I'd forgot his cunning plan to send barely-trained first-years after whatever could take down a fully-grown Unicorn. No wonder I'd run screaming in the first ten minutes last time.

The Forbidden Forest was dark – as you would, you know, expect a forest to be at night. But this was really dark. It made Wiltshire at night look positively bright, and all of a sudden I actually felt eleven again, seeing dark figures behind every tree and bush. A twig snapped and I almost bolted, but continued forward. I had the wand. I had the power. I would not have the name Draco Malfoy be synonymous with cowardice. Combat pragmatism, certainly, but not outright cowardice. Besides, I snorted, allowing a little bit of the old prejudice to flow back to me, I was a Wizard. I was better than this low fear.

"Look," Potter said, pointing to a rivulet of silvery substance on the ground. "What do you think that is?" Like flowing mercury, it ran across the forest floor. I shivered, masking my fear with my usual arrogance.

"Haven't you been paying attention in Potions, Potter?" I asked. "That's Unicorn blood. It's on the list of Restricted or Forbidden Potions Ingredients on something like page ten of our Potions book," I added. He shook his head.

"I knew I should have read the introduction," he admitted. I stared at him in disbelief.

"If you were wondering why Professor Snape thinks you're an arrogant toerag, that's probably a good place to start looking for an answer," I said, voice conveying my tone of surprise. He grinned.

"You're probably right," he said, then the smile faded. "So, if this is Unicorn blood," he started, and I finished for him.

"Then yeah, whatever's killing Unicorns should be down this way a bit," I said, and with a mutual shudder, we were off, following the trail across the ground for what seemed like miles until we saw it – a dying Unicorn, laying in a hollow.

Suddenly, Potter screamed, dropped his wand and clutched his head.

"Potter?" I asked, wand out. Fang, freed from the leash, sniffed the air in front of him and ran, barking all the way, as fast as he could in the other direction. "Potter, what is it? What's there?" He just screamed louder, and fell to the ground clutching his head. From the dark space behind the Unicorn, a cloaked figure rose, silvery blood dripping from its mouth. "Who's there?" I asked, leveling my wand at the figure, and then I saw, from the darkness under the hood, red eyes illuminating a pale face, and a wand of his own in his hand.

Oh, shit, said my eleven-year-old mind.

Voldemort, my rational eighteen-year-old mind told me.

Oh, SHIT, my eleven-year-old mind reiterated.

Yes, actually, my rational eighteen-year-mind agreed.

I froze, unable to cope with the sight before my eyes. Not yet, not yet, not yet, I thought. I'm not ready yet. I can't... and then I heard the sounds of cracking bone and slithering scales, heard the gasp as the air left Charity Burbage's lungs, and dropped to my knees.

" _Protego,_ " I whispered, feeling the flickering shield appear between two small boys and the Dark Lord Voldemort, and knowing it would do no good. A Shield Charm, no matter how strong, could not block the Killing Curse. I wasn't ready for this, my mind wasn't prepared enough, and I said a silent whisper of regret and apology to my parents, who would be weeping by this time tomorrow at the loss of their son.

And then I saw my father's face, stern and proud, clear as if he were directly in front of me.

"Get off the ground, Draco," he chided, and I could almost feel the click of his cane on the ground. "You're a Malfoy, one of the oldest families in Europe. It's not fitting for you to kneel like some common servant, even in the face of Death itself." Then the vision was gone, but the resolve it gave me poured through my legs, and I raised myself to my feet. Dispelling the Shield Charm – it would do no good – I put a haughty look on my face and glared at the Dark Lord, daring him to kill me.

He raised his wand, and it seemed as though I would be obliged. Then a large creature leapt between us, rearing up on hind legs and lashing out at the Dark Lord. I heard at least one good crack as the Centaur's hooves impacted the Dark Lord's face, and then he fled. As he left us, Potter uncurled, the pain in his head clearly gone.

"Harry Potter," the Centaur said, bending down to help him up. "It is not safe for you in the forest just now." I put my wand away, and grabbed Potter's for him. Hmm, holly. Not bad for defense work. No idea what the core was, of course. I kept thinking little things like that, which my rational mind was explaining calmly was a sign of emotional trauma. As per usual, I put my rational mind and my panicking mind together in a small partitioned mental area and let them fight it out.

"And you," the Centaur continued. "You are unharmed?" His voice was noticeably less warm to me than it was to Potter, but I suppose not everyone can be the Boy-Who-Lived. I was okay with that, as not everybody would grow up to inherit millions, either. Worries about life being fair were for other people.

"I'm fine," I rasped, sucking in air. I was most assuredly not fine, mentally and emotionally, but the Centaur was asking about physical well-being, I assumed, and I was indeed unharmed. The Centaur certainly thought it was enough. He turned back to Potter, who was on his feet by now.

"Come, I'll escort you two to safety," the Centaur said. I vaguely recognized him, then, as Firenze, the Divination professor after Trelawny got sacked during Umbridge's reign. Potter and I followed him, and it was the Boy-Who-Lived who asked the first question.

"What was that thing? Was it a person? A monster?" Firenze's eyes narrowed.

"A monster indeed, to do something so monstrous," he said. "To kill a Unicorn... a Unicorn's blood will keep you alive, even if you are an inch from death," he said, and I was eerily reminded of my Potions book, "But to slay a Unicorn is such a vile act that, from the moment the blood touches your lips, you will have a cursed life, a half-life."

"But why would someone do something like that?" Potter asked, and I had to agree with his line of questioning, even if my question was something more "Why would anybody subject themselves to that?" Firenze shook his head.

"Someone who knew he would not have to take the consequences on himself, perhaps," he mused, "Or someone already living in a half-living, half-dead state." He paused, looking up at the stars. "Can you think of no one whom that describes?" he asked.

"The Dark Lord," I said, at the same time as Potter said, "Voldemort." I shuddered, the memories too fresh now to resist fear of the damn name.

"So that thing... that was Voldemort?" Potter asked. I didn't have to. Firenze nodded his agreement, still half-staring at the stars. "But why would Voldemort come here?" he continued. "What could possibly be at Hogwarts that..." and then he paused, because Potter was not dumb, oh no. Just a little slow on the uptake.

"The Philosopher's Stone," he said, and Firenze and I both nodded our agreement.

"Voldemort wants to live again," Firenze said.

"Live forever, you mean," I countered, and he paused before nodding again.

"Yes, that too," the Centaur agreed. We had reached the edge of the Forest, and Hagrid, Granger, Longbottom and that bloody cowardly dog were all there.

"Alright, Harry, Draco?" Hargrid asked. Harry nodded. I scowled.

"We found what's been killing the Unicorns," I said, flatly, then walked past Hagrid, fully out of the forest. Hagrid looked up sharply, or as sharply as one could with that head of hair of his.

"Well, what was it?" Hagrid asked Potter. He gulped.

"Voldemort," Firenze said, simply, to Hagrid, Longbottom and Granger's gasps. I was impressed; by this time first year before, Longbottom would have fainted at the Dark Lord's name. Now he merely looked like he was about to wet himself. Well, I couldn't blame him. I resolved to check my own undergarments once my panicked mind and rational mind had finished duking it out.

"Harry Potter, this is where I leave you," Firenze told Potter. "You are safe now, with Hagrid. Be well," he continued. I wasn't expecting him to say goodbye to me. Not that I cared. I swear.

"And you, Draco Malfoy," he said. "The stars are quite confused about your life." He sounded half-puzzled, half amused. "Live it well." Then, after a comment on the brightness of Mars to Hagrid, he bounded off into the forest in a clatter of hooves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some inexplicable reason, this chapter contained the line "Then the head-crabs sprang on us and aboadqjhhqkjwerht" after the note about the unicorn blood making a half-life. Just a bit of insight into how I write, yes?


	15. Means, Motive and Opportunity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hagrid takes a vacation, and Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy learn of the Way Past Fluffy. Eventually, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "175. We do not 'charge into battle, naked, like the Celts'."  
> \- 213 Things Skippy Is No Longer Allowed to Do in the U.S. Army

"Potter, I was wondering something," I said. Actually, I was wondering how long my Godfather would let me chat across the aisle with the Boy-Who-Lived, but for the moment he seemed distracted. Apparently, his owl needed much preening time, and he was assisting her. Potter raised an eyebrow back – clearly, he had been paying some attention to Professor Snape in class, if not to Potions.

"Yeah?" he said. "Hurry; Ron's almost done chopping the ginger root." I nodded; Granger and I had finished with ginger root some time before and she was busy carefully measuring the powdered mandrake.

"How did Hagrid get a dragon's egg in the first place?" I asked, as quietly as I could. "It's not like they're common trade items." I wrinkled my nose. "Hell, they're illegal enough that my father would likely have trouble getting them."

"He said he'd gotten it off a bloke at the pub in Hogsmeade," Potter said, shrugging. "I didn't really give it much thought."

"Well, that's convenient," Weasley said, done with his ginger root and joining in the conversation. "Ow!" he added as my Godfather smacked him upside the head on his way to the back of the room. Seamus, apparently, had bypassed the entire explosion portion of his usual Potions routine, and the silence must have been worrisome to the Potions Master.

"What's convenient?" Granger asked. I rolled my eyes. When did I become part of this discussion group? I just wanted a answer from Potter.

"That what Hagrid wants more than anything in the world is a dragon," Potter said, "And someone shows up who just happens to have one handy?" Granger gasped.

"We need to ask him right after Potions!" she said, bossily. "Eep!" she added, as my Godfather's large nose appeared between her and me.

"Yes. AFTER Potions," Professor Snape said, very quietly. "And if you two don't shut up, I will be forced to dock points. That would be... unfortunate," he added, glaring at Granger. I smiled. Distractions aside, our potion would, of course, be top of the class. The only deciding factor now was who would get the highest score on the end-of-term test.

* * *

But Hagrid was not to be found in his cabin, or so said Potter when we ran across each other in the Great Hall at dinner. Theo had been on my case about hanging out with Gryffindors lately, and I didn't want to deal with any more of his eleven-year-old egomaniac crap.

"I wonder where he went off to?" I asked aloud. My question was answered by the headmaster, who was walking into the hall behind us.

"I'm afraid our gamekeeper has been busy preparing for his trip to Romania, upon which he left this morning," Professor Dumbledore said. Potter's face fell.

"Please, Professor Dumbledore, do you know when he'll be back?" Potter asked. I cursed inwardly. I was pretty sure we were on a timeline here, and I was trying to speed it up as best I could. The fickle finger of fate seemed determined to fight me at every turn, however.

"Oh, a few weeks or so," Dumbledore said. "He's visiting a friend, you see," he added, winking at first Potter, than me. Merciful Salazar's ghost, the man knew everything. I want to grow up to place chess like he does, omniscient bastard. "You can see him when he returns, of course," the headmaster added.

* * *

"En garde, Draco, and may I saw what a pleasure it is to have you back among the Slytherins?" Blaise began, lifting his own smallsword in a mock salute. I hefted my Christmas present, still getting used to the weight. I'd learned to swordfight with foil and epee, which were nothing like this blade – but it was light, at least, for a full-sized sword. I would have to practice with it, of course.

"I wasn't aware I'd been missed by anyone less anal-retentive than Theo," I shot back, saluting the dark-skinned boy back. "Or should I have questioned your anal-retentivity?" I asked him, blocking an initial swipe with my own blade. Blaise's handsome face worked itself carefully into a scowl, as if afraid it might stick that way.

"Nothing to worry about," he grunted. "I was concerned, was all. Appearences, of course." He came around for another swipe, feinted and thrust, and I felt the cushioning charm at the tip of the blade impact against my chest. I gripped my own sword with two hands, intent on getting used to the weight and knowing I could grow into it later if need be. Blaise was clearly already used to his, wielding the light weapon like a claymore.

"Touché," I admitted, getting into the fight once more. In my mind, I broke down the room – the Slytherin common room, abandoned in favor of lunch in the Great Hall – into rings around me. Intent on not letting Blaise into my inner ring, I adopted a higher guard, unconsciously mimicking his treating the smallsword like a broadsword or claymore.

"The first of many," Blaise boasted, but it took him another three minutes to get past my guard this time. One block was a little too slow – I just wasn't used to the weight of the sword – and I was on my arse again. Acknowledging the hit, I stabbed the ground and levered myself to my feat. Granger's book was helping my swordplay, at least as far as Muggle physics went, and both Blaise and I had agreed not to use lightening charms on the swords for fear we'd become dependent on them.

With an aggressive cry, I launched myself at Blaise, closing the distance to his inner guard before he could stop me. We locked swords together above our heads, and I glared at him from inches away.

"Can't hit me like this," he taunted. I let one side of my mouth curl into a smile.

"Are we fencing or fighting?" I asked, eliciting a confused look on his face.

"Fighting?" he said, so I head-butted him, slamming the cushioned end of my sword into his chest.

"Point!" he gasped, and I let him up.

"Shall we go again?" I asked, leaning on my sword as if I hadn't the slightest concern about the other armed man in front of me. Blaise, to his credit, grinned.

"What are you really up to with those Gryffindors?" He asked, drawing his sword back in a guard position. He gestured for me to do the same, flicking his fingers toward himself in the universally-recognized gesture for 'bring it.'

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," I said, raising my blade up into the skyward guard again. We each tried a few more exploratory attacks, each blocking the other's and not moving out of the farthest guard for either one. As we were taking a breather, he managed to respond.

"Try me," he said, panting. Used to it or not, almost ten minutes of swordplay will tire even the best-conditioned eleven-year-old. "You'd be pleasantly surprised what I believe." I raised a perfect eyebrow. Shrines will be raised in future Slytherin dormitories to that moment, that perfect raised eyebrow.

"Potter, Weasley and Granger have been tracking a certain object, capable of granting eternal life to the bearer, which is hidden in this very castle," I said, taking another breath. "The object is in danger by the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Quirrell, who is not the stuttering coward he makes himself out to be but instead the most recent convert to the Death Eaters, followers of the late and, outside many of this house's parents, un-lamented Dark Lord Voldemort. With me so far?" Blaise managed to avoid dropping his sword, and nodded.

"Quirrell wants to use this item, of which I have been forbidden to speak by certain Potions Masters in the service of the item's defense, to ressurect the Dark Lord, where he will surely be rewarded for his loyal servitude and for his damning himself to a cursed half-life by drinking Unicorn blood in the meantime." I grinned.

"The item is guarded by, among other things, the natures of which we have not yet worked out, a three-headed dog named 'Fluffy'." I bowed, unable to bring my sword up into a salute. "And that's where we're at now. Congratulations, consider yourself sworn to secrecy on the subject."

"Right," said Blaise, obviously not too sure as to whether I was to be believed. "Well, let me know how that goes," he added, grinning.

* * *

And then came the day. Hagrid had returned, and Potter's crew had immediately gone down to see him. When I met with him during supper, he was brimming with rage I hadn't seen before until his fifth year.

"Hagrid got the dragon egg of a cloaked person in the pub, who was very curious as to how he'd raised Fluffy," Potter explained. "Quirrell knows how to get past Fluffy now – apparently, all you do is play a little music." I shook my head in rueful non-surprise.

"So you've told Dumbledore, yeah?" I said, assuming Granger, at least, would have run straight to the headmaster with something like this. To my surprise, she shook her head.

"He got called away to the Ministry today," she said. "He won't be back until tomorrow." Weasley was scowling harder than Potter.

"Quirrell's going to steal the stone, tonight," the red-haired youngest boy spat. Potter and Granger nodded.

"Which means we have to go get it ourselves first," Potter added. "You wanted in on this, Draco," he said, using my first name for probably the first time. I nodded.

"The corridors are off-limits by nine," I said. "Can you meet me outside the third-floor corridor at 9:15?" They nodded.

"How are you going to get there, Malfoy?" Weasley asked. "You don't have the cloak," and Granger elbowed him – good to see her keeping secrets, after all – but he continued, "And you better not get us caught this time." He scowled, and I shook my head.

"I don't need an invisibility cloak to hide," I said. "And I have my ways." Potter nodded.

"It's settled, then," he said. "We're going for the stone tonight."


	16. The Philosopher's Stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the first-years are Big Damn Heroes, Draco catches the best snitch ever, and Neville Longbottom is cool under fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "212. Must not go on nine deployments in six years that require a security clearance that I don't have, even if the Army tells me repeatedly that I have one and I have no reason to question them."  
> \- 213 Things Skippy Is No Longer Allowed to Do in the U.S. Army

I admit I was expecting to get caught, especially as I didn't bother to involve my Godfather in this particular late-night excursion. By nine, the inside of Hogwarts was quite dark, and sneaking around would have been impossible without a light, especially as it was the night of the new moon. Being a Slytherin, I came prepared, however. A Hand of Glory grants light only to its bearer – therefore, I had plenty of light and could not be caught.

I did have a close call with Mrs. Norris – bloody cats seeing in the dark and all that – but managed to lock her in the kitchens near the Hufflepuff common room before she could follow me. Salazar-damned House Elves are probably making that cat bloated by now.

Nevertheless, I made it to the third-floor corridor with a minute or so to spare, and was leaning against a wall, tapping my foot impatiently when Potter, Granger, Weasley and Longbottom threw off the invisibility cloak by Fluffy's door.

"I wasn't aware we were recruiting," I drawled, extinguishing the Hand of Glory. Weasley scowled.

"We let you come with us, didn't we, Malfoy?" he said. Potter rolled his eyes.

"Neville was afraid we were going to lose more points for Gryffindor," he said. "So we had to tell him what we were doing or hex him, and I didn't want to hex a friend." I nodded.

"Too late to do anything about it now," I agreed. "What now?" Potter grinned.

"Hermione, will you do the honors?" She stepped authoritatively up to the door and tapped the lock with her wand.

" _Alohomora!_ " she incanted, and the lock sprang open. She smirked and blew across the top of her wand like a gunfighter in those Muggle westerns my Godfather treated like a guilty pleasure. "Shall we?" she said, gesturing for us to go.

Potter led the way. I supposed I should probably be annoyed at being relegated to sidekick, but in the end, at least I was on the winning side this time. I hoped, anyway.

Fluffy was already asleep, an enchanted harp plucking away at some lullaby. Granger made her way over to the trap door, pulling it open.

"Down here," she said. "And wands out, boys," she added bossily. "There's bound to be more than just a three-headed dog guarding the Stone." In hindsight, she was absolutely right, but we were distracted just then by the harp's sudden silence.

"Into the hole!" Potter yelled, pushing Weasley down the trap door as Granger made the leap herself. I started singing, softly, hoping to buy us time.

"Once, a jolly swagman camped beside a billabong," sang, wishing I knew something other than a Muggle song every child seems to pick up at some point. To my surprise, Longbottom joined in as well, his voice cracking less as he sang a decent harmony to my lead. Potter smiled, jumping in the trap door as well, and Longbottom and I continued the song through the last verse.

"And his ghost may be heard as you ride beside the billabong," we chanted, poising ourselves over the trap door, then after a grin at each other, Longbottom and I both yelled out, "You'll come a-Waltzing Matilda with me!" and dove, laughing maniacally, into the hole as Fluffy roared in rage.

"You two are completely starking mad," Weasley observed as we landed in the waiting tendrils of a cushy, kudzu-esque plant. Longbottom looked around, confused.

"Hermione, why are we sitting in a bunch of Devil's Snare?" he asked. The bushy-haired witch facepalmed as Weasley started panicking, letting the vine wrap around him even faster.

"Of course," she said. "And how do we get past it?" Longbottom tilted his head, as if thinking.

"Fire or sunlight," he said, having clearly come to a conclusion. Neville Longbottom apparently had a knack for Herbology.

Good for him, I thought, chanting " _Lumos Solem!_ " along with Potter while Granger conjured some form of bluebell-looking flames. Longbottom didn't manage to conjure anything, and Weasley's wand-arm was pinned to his side, but the three spells did the job. The vine curdled – literally curdled, like dying spiders and rancid milk – and dropped us past it to the castle floor. I dusted myself off.

"And what's our next challenge?" I asked, grinning at Potter. "I should probably have brought my sword," I added, though I realized trying to chop through the cursed plant would have put me in the same situation as Weasley, and that was never going to happen. "Good thing I didn't," I amended at Granger's amused look.

"Good thing Neville pays attention in Herbology," she said, and the Heir of Longbottom blushed. Weasley, having finally shed the remaining vines from his clothes, cocked an ear.

"Does anyone hear... buzzing?" he asked, and we all listened as well. Potter followed the sounds through an archway, and we, of course, followed Potter. The sight of a thousand flying keys greeted us, and a locked door on the other end of the room said something about their purpose.

"Which one fits it?" I wondered aloud. Potter shook his head, then pointed.

"That one, with the broken wing, maybe?" he said. "If Quirrell's already been here..." but I was way ahead of him. I grabbed one of the brooms from against the wall, tossing another to Potter.

"Race you to the Snitch," I said, and we were off again. I admit, during the earlier game against Hufflepuff, I hadn't felt anything like this (even though I caught the Snitch then and we absolutely flattened them, making up quite a bit for our earlier loss of three hundred points. Poor Hufflepuff House.

But it was good to be racing against Potter again, even if this time we were using the school's decrepit old Cleansweeps, and I wondered where the darkness in me had fled. The ambition and certain moral flexibility that made me a Slytherin was still here, of course, but I wondered, as Potter and I chased the little winged key around the tower-shaped room, when I had stopped being an asshole.

I still wasn't nice enough to let Potter catch the key, though, and with a howl of triumph, I landed, Potter landing a second later.

"You do know," he said, catching his breath, "That I will absolutely flatten you next year." I smiled. It wasn't an idle boast; I'd seen the Gryffindor-Ravenclaw match, and Potter flew rings around their seventh-year seeker. They'd have to replace him next year, and even with Hufflepuff sporting fourth-year Cedric Diggory in the Seeker spot, Potter and I were the best.

"We'll see," I said, keying the lock and turning it. "What in Salazar's name?" I wondered. Surprisingly, it was Weasley who answered.

"It's a chessboard," he said, in awe, and indeed, the giant statues, armed to the teeth, could only be a chessboard. "We have to play our way across." Indeed, there were several empty spots on our side of the board. Without even waiting for Potter, Weasley took command.

"Harry, you take the King spot," he pointed toward the center of the board. "Neville, mate, I'm sorry, but take that pawn spot on the end." Longbottom grudgingly walked off toward the front lines, shivering noticably but unwilling to let down his friends. "Hermione, take the King's side bishop, and Malfoy, the Queen's side castle," he added. I nodded, jogging to the Queen's side of the board. I could absolutely play a Rook. Now I really did miss my sword.

Weasley leapt up on the back of one of the horses, disgorging the Knight who'd been sitting there, and we waited. White moved first, and the game began, a massacre of marble and steel. I took a pawn halfway through, and thankfully I only had to push it over, because I didn't have much on me in the way of taking anything down. I have to admit, for a such a book-dumb guy, he was a Salazar-blessed genius on the chessboard.

Finally, the game came to a close. Weasley had managed to walk Longbottom across the board, making him a queen, and he and Granger and I nearly had the White side's king trapped. Only their queen was still causing havoc, and if Weasley was Gryffindor enough, there was a way out of that, too.

"Neville," he said, "I'm going to move. When I do, the queen will capture me, and you'll be free to mate the king." Granger balked.

"Ron, don't!" she said. He shook his head.

"It's the only way to go forward," he said. "And if I don't, they'll take Harry in three moves anyway," he added, and a quick look at the board showed he was right. There were two white pawns far too close to the black side of the board for my liking – why hadn't I noticed those earlier? I shook my head.

"That's chess," I said, and it looked like Potter understood. Weasley moved his knight to check the white king, and flinched only a moment as the queen smote him to the ground. Granger tried to move to help him, but Potter's voice kept her back.

"Don't forget, we're still playing," he admonished. "Neville, finish it." Longbottom walked across the board, placing himself in a position that gave the king literally nowhere to go.

"Check mate," he said, voice shaking, and the king shattered into dust. After checking to make sure Weasley was alive, I began examining the space behind the white side of the board.

"Neville, stay with Ron," Potter said, noticing as I did that Longbottom's legs were shaking too hard to go on. "We'll be back for you." Longbottom nodded, sitting down next to the red-headed chessmaster and trying very hard to catch his breath.

As we stepped into the next room, flames appeared before us and behind us, and Snape's logic puzzle – I assumed it was my Godfather's, anyway, as it involved potions – appeared on the table in front of us. I shook my head.

"Potions?" I said. Granger disagreed.

"Logic," she said, reading the note to herself and busying her mind with the odd puzzle. Finally, she pointed to the smallest vial. "That one should take people through," she said, "And this one," she added, pointing to a larger container, "Will let us go back through the flames behind us." Thankfully, there was enough of that to serve all of us, if we wanted. I nodded.

"Okay, Potter. You go through," I advised, and he nodded. "You're the only one with a proven track record of surviving the Dark Lord, so you should do just fine against his minion." Granger hugged him, crying, but it looked like she agreed. Privately, I just assumed that, since Potter had lived through the final year-one conflict the first time, he'd do just fine this time.

"Fine, Draco. You and Hermione go back through the flames behind us," he ordered. "Get Neville and Ron out of here and go get help. Get a Professor you can trust and have them get a message to Dumbledore." I nodded.

"I'll get my Godfather," I said, and Potter agreed. "Good luck, Potter." I took a swig of the cold potion, passing the bottle to Granger before I walked through the flames unharmed. Granger and I ran back to Longbottom and Weasley. As usual, the bushy-haired witch took charge.

"Draco, go grab one of the brooms and get Professor Snape," she said. "I'll keep these two calm." At my surprised look, she shrugged. "I'm shite on a broom," she admitted, sheepishly, as if loathe to admit there was anything she wasn't excellent at. I grinned.

"Nice to know I'm better than you at something besides Potions," I quipped, running back toward the broom room before she could curse in indignition. I grabbed a broom, ducking through the doorway beneath the keys and pointing my wand at the Devil's Snare.

" _Incendio!_ " I intoned, watching in pyromaniacal glee as the murderous plant withered and died around the very real flames I conjured. Bluebells my aristocratic arse. I jumped on the broom, launching a blasting hex at the trap door as I flew toward it. " _Bombarda Maxima!_ " I yelled, blowing out the corridor doorway as I shot past a very surprised Fluffy. I rocketed down the halls, feeling for all the world like an auror chasing a dragon, and managed, despite the dark, to make it down to the dungeons before braking to a halt next to my Godfather's office.

"Godfather! Professor Snape! It's an emergency!" I bellowed, not caring who heard me as I banged on the doors. The scowling face of the Potions Master appeared as the door opened, but as he saw me, his tone was one of surprise.

"Draco?" my ordinarily unflappable Godfather asked. "What the devil is going on here!"


	17. End of the Adventure and End of Term

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Snape reveals a secret, Dumbledore saves the day, and Draco Malfoy says goodbye to his fellow first-years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "91. I am not authorized to initiate Jihad."  
> \- 213 Things Skippy Is No Longer Allowed to Do in the U.S. Army

My Godfather, having heard my wild tale, wasted little time.

" _Expecto Patronum!_ " he bellowed, and a beautiful silver doe sprang forth from his wand, cantering about the dungeons. It looked completely out of place, really – and I'd not known Professor Snape could conjure a Patronus at all. Perhaps he could teach me one day.

"Tell Albus Dumbledore this," he said. "Quirrell in the Stone room. Potter has followed. Three students injured at the chessboard." The doe lowered her head in a nod and bounded toward the stairs while I just boggled.

"I didn't know you could conjure a corporeal Patronus," I said, and my Godfather stared at me. I could feel the first tendrils of a Legilimency invasion poke against my Occlumency shields, but he pulled back quickly.

"It is a secret I would like to continue to keep," he said, gesturing for me to follow him to the third floor. I did, broom slung over my shoulder. "And I will thank you never to speak of it to anyone," he added, looking sternly at me.

"I'll keep your secrets, Godfather," I said. "You keep mine, after all." He nodded, and we continued toward the corridor where Fluffy – and the injured students – waited.

" _Bombarda Maxima,_ " he intoned, blowing a hole in the wall and freeing Fluffy. "Go find Hagrid," he ordered, and the three-headed dog happily obeyed, leaping from the castle with apparently little injury.

"Godfather," I warned, "If you can slow our fall, it would be best." He raised an eyebrow.

"Took care of the Devil's Snare, then, did you?" he asked, rhetorically. "Very well," he added, pointing his wand down the whole and casting a cushioning charm. We moved briskly past the room with the keys and onto the chessboard.

"Professor Snape! Thank Merlin!" Granger said, gasping. "Neville's gone into some sort of panic attack and Ron is still unconscious!" My Godfather rushed over to the panicking boy and handed him something.

"Drink this, quickly," he barked, and Granger helped him bring the small vial to his lips. Longbottom's breathing slowed to a more healthy level, and he relaxed. As the Potions Master was kneeling over Weasley, checking his wounds, a crack of Apparition – apparently impossible inside Hogwarts, but just as apparently not – and the crackling of flames announced the arrival of the Headmaster.

"Come, Severus," he said, "Let me see the boy." Albus Dumbledore joined my Godfather at Weasley's side. "A mild concussion, possibly," he said. "I think it's best you get these two to Madam Pomfrey," he added, gesturing to Longbottom as well. "And Miss Granger, Mister Malfoy, I suggest you get yourselves checked out as well." He straightened up, drawing what I knew to be the Elder Wand, and walked towards the flames, which parted as he arrived.

"I must go on alone," he said, and Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore walked forward to do battle with a Death Eater. Unconsciously parrotting a Muggle celebrity, I commented on Quirrell's likelihood of surviving that encounter.

"I pity the fool," I said, shaking my head as Granger laughed.

* * *

"So, Potter," I said, looking at the newly-awakened boy in the Hospital wing. "How was playing the hero?" The Boy-Who-Lived, covered with just a few more scars than usual, smiled ruefully.

"I don't know how much I liked it," he admitted, before grabbing a Chocolate Frog from the pile people had left by his hospital bed. "I missed the Quidditch match, didn't I?" he asked, and I nodded. "How bad was it?"

"460 to 120, Hufflepuff," I admitted. "But look on the bright side – it was only Hufflepuff, so your house is still in third place for the House Cup," I added, then took a moment to buff my nails on my robes. "Slytherin is, of course, in first, having beaten Ravenclaw by something like six hundred points," I said. Potter boggled. "Apparently, their Seeker fell off their broom during the first five minutes. I just let Seamus, Blaise and Flint rack up the score before I even bothered looking for the Snitch." Potter hung his head, moaning something about incompetent Ravenclaws. When he looked up, I met his eyes.

"I'll be out of this bed with plenty of time for practice before next year," Potter said, and I saw, with that determination, he definitely would be.

"You better," I said. "I'll be annoyed if I don't have a challenge next year." I smiled, and he smiled as well. I stepped away from the bed, waving to the invalid as I turned around and was confronted with the bearded figure of Albus Dumbledore. I bit back a gasp, but met his eyes.

"He's coming back, isn't he, Professor?" I asked, and could feel Potter's eyes on both of us as the headmaster nodded. There was no doubt of whom I was speaking. Then I felt the first tendrils of Legilimancy on the edges of my mind, and began to put up my shields. The first tentative touches let me know, however, that Dumbledore's mental prowress – at least offensively – was beyond my Godfather's by an order of magnitude.

Instead of shielding, I concentrated all my mental reserves on one thought.  _That's rude, Professor_ , I thought at him, and felt the tendrils withdraw in surprise. Dumbledore winked at me.

"My apologies, Mister Malfoy," he said, smiling, as I walked past him out the door.

* * *

The Great Hall was filled to the brim with students for the leaving feast, and all of us were excited. Even Potter was out of his hospital bed and smiling with his friends at the Gryffindor table. At the Slytherin table, I was the center of attention, having ensured that Slytherin, despite our losses, was only forty points behind Ravenclaw for the House Cup. Next year, we knew, we'd do better. Poor Gryffindor, with 340 points, trailed our house's 500 and Ravenclaw's 540. Only Hufflepuff, with 290 points after not quite recovering from the Black Friday fight, were behind them.

"Ahem," the Headmaster said from behind his owl-shaped podium. "Another year gone, and the House Cup points stand as follows. In fourth place with 290 points, Hufflepuff! In third place with 340 points, Gryffindor! In second with an ambitious and even 500, Slytherin! And in first place, with 540 points, Ravenclaw House!" There was cheering from the blue and bronze-bedecked Ravenclaw table.

"Yes, yes, well done Ravenclaw, well done," the Headmaster continued, winking. "But I have a few last-minute points to award in reference to an event most of you have been discussing for weeks, despite its complete secrecy." There were murmurs all over the Great Hall at that announcement.

"First, to Mister Neville Longbottom, for showing true Gryffindor bravery and a singular dedication to academics in the face of mortal peril, I award Gryffindor House 50 points." I looked over to the Gryffindor table, where Longbottom looked shell-shocked. I pointed at him quietly, and Blaise slipped me five Galleons.

"Fine," he whispered. "But no bet on the rest of them." I grinned, nodding my agreement as he then turned around and made the same bet against Theo Nott, this time on my side of the argument.

"To Mister Ronald Weasley, for courageous sacrifice and the best-played game of chess Hogwarts has seen these many years, I award Gryffindor House 50 points," the Headmaster continued. I smiled thinly. I could see where this was going, since it had happened last time around. The Gryffindors erupted into cheers, sitting pretty at 440 points. I shook my head, knowing where this was going next.

"To Miss Hermione Granger, for use of cool logic in the face of fire and willingness to stand by her friends even when she could no longer go on, I award Gryffindor House 50 points," he said, and the realization that they were just ten points behind hated Slytherin made the Gryffindor table explode.

"And to Mister Harry Potter," he continued, and the room went silent, doing the math. Fifty more points would tie Gryffindor and Ravenclaw, shoving Slytherin House back into third. "For pure nerve, outstanding moral fiber and the willingness to defy an adult servant of darkness, I award Gryffindor House 60 points."

The room exploded into chaos, and I slumped down. It was just like the headmaster to let a house win outright just because they were his favorites. Highway robbery is what it was. At the head table, I could see my Godfather scowling, and I prepared to dig into the feast anyway, proud to the end.

And then Dumbledore continued talking, and the room fell silent.

"Finally, it takes a great deal of courage to confront a fearsome enemy, especially one so far beyond a first-year student," he said. "But it takes as much courage, as well as a great heaping helping of wit and ambition, to acknowledge that a rival might be correct, and to aid him in doing the right thing." The buzzing of confusion about the Great Hall must have been music to the headmaster's ears, for he paused before continuing. When it had reached a fever pitch, he dropped his little bombshell. "Therefore, for these examples of wit, ambition and pragmatic courage shown by Draco Malfoy, I award Slytherin House 50 points."

Finally, it was my table's turn to cheer, and even Theo got in on it, completely forgetting in that moment that our success was due to me cooperating with a bunch of Gryffindors. Crabbe and Goyle were out of their seats doing the Weasley dance, not even caring that we were tied, and Seamus Finnegan slipped what looked like a Galleon coin to Blaise Zabini with a smile.

"Assuming my calculations are correct," Dumbledore continued, "And they usually are, I believe a change of decoration is in order?" The blue and bronze banners of Ravenclaw House flickered in a sudden breeze, to be replaced by red and gold Gryffindor banners evenly interspersed with the green and silver banners of Slytherin.

* * *

Blaise and I walked down to the Hogwarts Express together, with Crabbe, Goyle and Seamus trailing behind us, talking about Quidditch as usual. Seamus was even wearing the Ireland jersey I got him, and they were already busily making plans for summer. I shook my head, smiling.

"What is it?" Blaise asked, catching the grin. I turned to look at him.

"If you'd told me this time last year that Vince and Greg would make friends with an Irish half-blood, that I'd be on speaking terms with Gryffindors, and that Theo Nott would attempt to take over Slytherin House, I'd probably have pushed you in the lake," I admitted. He barked out a laugh.

"If you'd told me this time last year that Dumbledore would allow us to keep the swords after Flitwick found us sparring in the Charms classroom, I might have pulled you with me," he said. "Not to mention you actually hugging a Muggle-born witch at the leaving feast, and Gryffindor, at that." He shook his head. "What your father might have to say about that should definitely be worth a few days of amusement at dinner," he added. I smiled as well, but it was pasted on. I doubted that conversation would be at all amusing.

We boarded the train, and sooner, rather than later, we watched the Scottish countryside roll by on the way back to London. I had only my rucksack, having finally mastered Undetectable Extension Charms after many a night spent in the library with the hand of glory. Carrying giant luggage around, as ostentatious as it might make me look – a good thing in Slytherin, at least – was rather impractical.

All too soon, we were back in London.


	18. Family Relations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lucius Malfoy is not waiting for his son on Platform 9 and ¾.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "124. Two drink limit does not mean first and last.  
> 125\. Two drink limit does not mean two kinds of drinks.  
> 126\. Two drink limit does not mean the drinks can be as large as I like."  
> \- 213 Things Skippy Is No Longer Allowed to Do in the U.S. Army

I stepped off the Hogwarts Express at King's Cross, looking around for my family. I saw Blaise's slightly-scary mother waiting to pick him up, and helped my room-mate pick up his luggage from the cart, seeing as I had only a little.

"Hello, Draco," Mrs. Zabini said. "I hear good things about you from Blaise." My friend looked slightly sheepish. "That must be a surprise to you," she added drolly, looking at her son. "Come along, Blaise," she said, turning to leave. "We'll work out visiting with your friend this summer later on." She glided off, and Blaise, shrugging helplessly at me, went to follow her.

Crabbe and Goyle had already disappeared by the time I turned back to the Slytherin contingent, and Theo said a brisk "Have a nice summer, Draco," before himself heading off with his parents. Seamus introduced me to his "ma" as well, his strong Irish accent coming back with a vengeance now that he was away from us heathen southerners.

I still couldn't see my father anywhere, and I was beginning to worry. Wordlessly, I waved at Granger as she and her dentist parents left the platform. I saw Potter waiting with a gaggle of red-haired witches and wizards who had to be the Weasleys, and they walked over to me on their way off the platform.

"Malfoy," the youngest Weasley male said, sticking out his hand. "I... I wanted to say thanks." I took it, sharing his father's look of confusion. "For getting me help after I got hurt, and for the Christmas gift," he clarified, clearing my confusion but increasing Arthur Weasley's. It looked like I was not going to be the only one with interesting dinnertime conversation tonight. I smiled winningly.

"Anytime," I offered, knowing it would completely confuse the family's opinion of me even further. Even the youngest, an eleven-year-old hiding behind Molly Weasley as if the sight of Harry Potter, who was still trailing along with them, was too much to bear, poked her head out to goggle. I smiled at her, and she blushed crimson – a family trait, apparently – and hid again. The Weasleys moved on, chattering amongst themselves. Abruptly, I found myself standing alone on the platform with Harry Potter.

"Not a bad year, huh, Draco?" he said. I raised my eyebrows.

"Certainly ended better than it started," I allowed, shaking his hand. "Harry." His grin widened, and I scowled. "Don't get your hopes up, it will be right back to 'Potter' next year unless you shape up at Quidditch," I said, but nothing could wipe the knowing grin off his face. Bloody Gryffindors.

And then I was alone on Platform 9 and ¾, wondering when it was that my Father would be arriving.

After an hour, I realized he wasn't coming. Heading out to the street, feeling completely out of place in robes and Slytherin colors, I held up my wand. With a crack, a huge blue double-decker bus appeared.

"Welcome to the Knight Bus," the conductor, a stringy, pimply young adult read from a card. "Emergency transportation for the stranded witch or wizard. My name is Stan Shunpike," he added, gesturing to the badge on his chest, "And I will be your conductor for today." I got on. "Where to?" he asked, pointing me to a seat.

"Wiltshire," I said. "I'll walk from there, the manor's unplottable." He nodded.

"Ernie, we're going to Wiltshire," he told the elderly driver, and we were off with another bang. "Wiltshire should be, let's see, no ocean crossings... ten sickles and two knuts, I think." I gave him a Galleon and told him to keep the change, and he pocketed the coin.

"Wiltshire," he announced, and we were there. With transportation this fast, I thought, and this cheap, I had no idea why anyone would ever be stranded. I made a note to myself to not tell Potter about this until his tube pass had expired.

I walked up the long hill to the dark and forboding Malfoy Manor, seeing behind the iron gates the beautiful white flamingos and the stately marble walls of the manor proper. My family's home for generations, it gave me a little chill just to see it again. I walked up to the gate, grabbing at it to let me in.

Nothing happened. I rattled the gate again, thinking perhaps it had made a mistake.

"Come on, open," I said. "I'm Draco Malfoy, I live here." At the top of the hill, far beyond the gates, I saw a light pour out of the front doors of the manor house, and my blood went cold. No servant, no house elf. Just the white hair of my father, who would never stoop to walking down to the gate to let anyone in, let alone his son. I began to shiver. He was going to do it. He was going to disown me.

"Dobby," I whispered, as my father slowly made his way down the path, still some distance away. The House Elf appeared with a pop.

"Master Draco calls for Dobby?" he asked, quietly. I tossed him something from the top of my pack.

"Dobby, come find me in a month," I said. "I'd like to talk about paid employment with you." The tiny elf looked down at the object he held in his hands, and his already- bulging eyes bugged out even further.

"Master has given Dobby a sock!" he marveled, hugging the clothing to him. "Dobby is free!" He continued to nuzzle the sock as I looked, alarmed, at my father, who was striding toward the gate, his silver snake cane clicking.

"Dobby, get out of here!" I hissed, watching in horror as he continued his Dobby Slash Sock One True Pairing hugs with the shoe liner. He looked up at me.

"Draco cannot give Dobby orders," he said, "Dobby is a free elf... oh." He noticed my father, about to reach the gates, and Disapparated with a quiet pop. Not a moment too soon, either.

"Draco," my father drawled. "To what do I owe this visit?" he continued, as if I didn't live here, as if this were not the only home I'd ever known.

"I was under the impression I lived here, father," I said. I would not show him fear. It would be a weakness he would only relish. I realized then that the father I'd known, the family loyalty above all else I'd seen, had only come out after he'd realized he was wrong. I nearly shivered at that.

"Did you now?" he asked. "I'm sorry to say that, as you are no longer a member of this family as of right now," he said, and there was a pop of magic as I was officially informed, "That this is not your home any longer." I stared at him.

"You don't live here anymore, boy," he continued. "Did you think I'd take you back after you helped that Potter brat prevent our Lord's ascension? Did you think your befriending that Mudblood would go unnoticed? Did you think ignoring your mother's warning was wise? That your theft – yes, theft! – from our vault at Gringotts would go unnoticed? You have betrayed our family and all we hold dear! You are no longer a part of this family!" he thundered. Shock parted way to righteous outrage, as I stood my ground on my side of the gate, staring openly at the man who had once called himself my father.

"You're disowning me?" I asked Lucius Malfoy. "How can you justify that?" He snarled at me, and I quavered. This was a side of Lucius Malfoy I'd never seen when he was my father.

"You disowned us, boy, when you turned your back on everything this family stands for!" he said, quiet voice betraying rage. "Now get off my property before I have you arrested for trespassing," he added, nearly spitting the last bit out before turning to walk back to the house.

Only once the light had once again faded from the open doors did I allow myself to cry.

**-o-o-o-**

An hour later, I pulled myself together enough on the Wiltshire street to call the Knight Bus again. Sometime during that period, it had, inevitably, started to rain, and I was soaked to the skin. At least it hid my tear tracks, I thought.

"Where to now, kid?" Shunpike asked, either too surprised at seeing me again or just too tactful to say anything. I was betting the former. Tact didn't really seem high on Shunpike's list of attributes.

"The Leaky Cauldron," I said, voice flat for fear of betraying any emotion. "London." He relayed the information to the driver, and before he could say "Ten sickles, two knuts," I had handed him a Galleon and left the double-decker in front of the pup.

Drying charms hit me as I entered, and I was suddenly no longer soaked despite the rain, which had only gotten worse during our short hop from Wiltshire.

"Excuse me," I asked the barman. "Do you have somewhere I can change clothes?" He grunted, pointing to a bathroom next to the bar, with two signs indicating one was for witches, the other wizards. Biting back the question of what happened when a Squib needed to shit here, I changed out of my school robes into what looked almost like Muggle clothing. I didn't need to attract attention if I went anywhere.

I bought dinner with some of my last remaining cash, intending to wait until Gringotts opened the next day, withdraw some more money, and take the Knight Bus to Spinner's End. My Godfather would know what to do.

It wasn't until the next day that I realized, after a short argument with a Goblin, that without both key and adult, I couldn't get to my vault. I didn't even have enough left after dinner to rent an owl, and the odds of my Godfather entering the Leaky Cauldron at random seemed slim.

I briefly considered casting a spell, hoping the Ministry would notify my legal guardian and hoping that was still Professor Snape and not the Ministry itself, before realizing that plan required far too much hope and not enough likelihood of working.

So I stayed in the Leaky Cauldron, buying a much cheaper dinner the next night, and cleaning dishes for scraps after lunch the second day. I had no idea what I was going to do – I did eat a few of the sweets I'd stored in my rucksack; Potter had had far too many anyway – but I knew those wouldn't sustain me for long.

That night, in thanks for my cleaning or out of pity, I'm not sure which, Tom, the barman, brought me a bowl of soup.

"It's not the pea, of course," he said, "but I reckon you needed a bit of a pick me up." I ate it thankfully, briefly considering asking for more before realizing that would be assuming too much about Tom's goodwill.

"Here," said a shabby – looking stranger I'd noticed at the bar the last few days. "Let me." He dropped a few sickles on the bar – more than I had at present, I was ashamed to admit – and brought a second bowl of soup and a couple Butterbeers over to me. "Remus Lupin," he said, and then I did recognize him as the disheveled, poor Defense professor from my third year. "Eat up," he said, and handed me the soup and one of the Butterbeers, popping the other for himself.

"Now," he said, joining me at my small table. "What has a young Malfoy such as yourself begging for table scraps in the Leaky Cauldron?" he asked, friendly beyond any of my memories. I shook my head.

"I'd rather not talk about it," I said, "Though I thank you for the soup and the Butterbeer," I added. I may have been disowned, but my manners had not disowned me. "Unless, perhaps, you have an owl you could lend me?" I queried, realizing that he might be of help after all. He shook his head.

"Did you need to send a message to your family?" he asked. "Do they know you're here?" I snorted.

"They put me here," I spat. "Lucius decided I was a disgrace to the proud line of Malfoys and cast me out." I shook my head again. This was more than I wanted to admit to anyone, and the look of combined sorrow and outrage on Lupin's face compounded that. If I had too much pity, I wouldn't be able to hold back the tears, and that wouldn't do.

"It's nothing," I said, trying to brush the whole situation off. "If I can get ahold of my Godfather, he'll know what to do." Lupin sat up straight at this.

"Your Godfather?" he asked, looking confused. I nodded.

"Professor Severus Snape?" I said. "Do you know him?" A sad look passed across his face.

"I'll be right back, young one," he said. "Finish your soup," he added, before stepping into the alley behind the Cauldron. I saw a brilliant flash of light, which lasted almost a minute before departing, and Lupin returned.

We sipped Butterbeer in silence, as he seemed to be waiting for something. After a few minutes, I realized what it was, as a black-robed, greasy-haired figure walked through the door.

"Draco," said Professor Severus Snape, rare emotion evident in his voice, and I ran to him. Completely disregarding Lupin, the pubgoers and all sense of dignity, I collapsed in my Godfather's arms.

**\- End Year One -**


	19. YEAR II TITLE PAGE

## A Slytherin at War Year 2:

__**Draco Malfoy and the Price of Ignorance** _ _   


* * *

Once upon a time, a wizard child got the jump on a giant snake, defeating the Dark Lord before he could be reborn. This is still not that story.


	20. Days of Summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Draco sums up the situation, secures his position with the aid of a few friends, generally plans for the future and is incredibly confused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "203. “To conquer the earth with an army of flying monkeys” is a bad long term goal to give the re-enlistment NCO."  
> – 213 Things Skippy is No Longer Allowed to Do in the U.S. Army

When last we left our intrepid hero – me, though I object to both "intrepid" and "hero" as sheer Gryffindor nonsense – he had been disowned by his father, Lucius Malfoy. Left to my own devices, I washed dishes in the Leaky Cauldron for a couple bowls of soup until not-yet-professor Lupin stumbled on me and managed to put me in contact with my Godfather.

Also, for the uninitiated, I had just completed my first year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for the second time, after traveling back in time through the good graces of the Room of Requirement just following the disastrous final battle at the end of my seventh year, where everyone I cared about beside my family died. This time, I've vowed, I will win this war my way – a Slytherin's way.

Despite my breaking down near to tears – alright, I'll admit, actually in tears – upon my reunion with my Godfather, I was actually rather content most of the summer. My Godfather – you may know him as Severus Snape, Potions Master at Hogwarts – had an extensive collection of books both magical and Muggle, and despite that blasted Sorting Hat's insistence that I was destined to be a Slytherin now and forever and never a Ravenclaw, I'd picked up some appreciation for book-learning during my NEWT year that I intended to use now.

Severus wasn't exactly the conversational sort, unless addressed, and spent most of the time in the downstairs potions lab, or reading in his comfortable armchair, his tiny Screech Owl, Lily, perched on his invariably-black robes and hooting contentedly. The Screech-owl, that is, not my Godfather. I'd taken to doing much of the same, and between my dog-eared, hand-me-down copy of Advanced Potion-Making (I had a bet with Granger, you see, and I intended to collect – especially as I could no longer afford the 1000 Galleons we'd initiatlly wagered) and a couple Muggle texts, June breezed softly into July.

So I was in my own chair, reading through Dave Macauley's The Way Things Work for the third or fourth time, trying to get a better grasp of Muggle technology, when the floo suddenly went off. This was an odd occurance – the only person who ever called on Severus was Headmaster Dumbledore, and he preferred his Patronus.

"Draco?" the fireplace asked. The voice was a bit hesitant, and thus took me a minute to place.

"Blaise?" I queried back, once I was pretty sure. "Is that you there?" The ember effigy of my housemate, Blaise Zabini, grinned.

"Got it in one, my fellow conspirator," he said. "Mind if I come through?" I gave my assent, and suddenly our living room had another occupant. A head taller than me, Blaise's complexion could best be described as that of toffee, if one were given to describing their male friends that way. Hell, Blaise probably did, given his subscription to Witch Weekly.

"Wotcher, Blaise," I greeted, having picked up the expression from a couple Muggle teens at the bookstore I now frequented. Blaise raised a perfectly-trimmed eyebrow.

"And good afternoon to you as well," he finally said. "Gone native, have you?" I looked down, and shrugged. Old Draco would likely never have been caught in blue jeans, but New Draco preferred not to spill potions ingredients on what few dress slacks he still had, and robes weren't exactly comfortable or inconspicuous in Muggle London's muggy, oppressively hot summer.

"I suppose," I drawled, letting him know I hadn't changed all that much in a month. Really, I hadn't. I mean, last time I'd still been sporting that unfortunate blond helmet through second year, but as has already been noted, that was first against the wall when the revolution came. Or at least it was as soon as I managed to find some paint thinner.

"And you?" I continued. "Keeping busy this summer?" Blaise shrugged, a mirror to my own, then subtly shifted position. My eyes went wide, and my wand was in my hand before I even thought, summoning my sword from across the room as Blaise drew his from a mokeskin pouch. I got my guard up in time, and his overhand blow clanged off my hasty block.

"Birthday present?" I asked, as my friend and erstwhile sparring partner broke into a grin. He nodded.

"Easy to conceal things," he grunted good-naturedly as we circled round the room, our blades in a high guard. He'd started to grow into his; I knew from experience I wouldn't get a growth spurt until just before third year, and still held mine two-handed, like a broadsword. "You, my friend, are out of practice," Blaise chided.

"That's because my house is not a gladatorial arena, Mr. Zabini," my Godfather intoned from the doorway to the basement, his wand held lazily in his hand as he scowled at the two of us. Blaise had the good grace to look abashed, though he kept his guard up.

"Sorry, Professor," he said, parrying a good thrust from me as he spoke. "Might Draco join me at mine, that we might get our sparring match out of your living room?" Blaise feared nothing, apparently. Had we been at school, my Godfather probably would have had him scrubbing cauldron bottoms in detention for his cheek. But we were not in school.

"If that is the best way for me to obtain a little peace and quiet, you may go," he said, waving his wand almost carelessly and levitating Blaise toward the floo. "Château Zabini," he added, as an afterthought, tossing powder across the room with a potions master's practiced precision before tossing my housemate in. "Going, Draco?" he added, the smirk that had recently replaced his customary sneer outright on his face.

"Of course," I grinned, tossing off a salute with my sword. I double-checked the wand at my belt and prepared to go through. Then I had a better idea. I mounted my broom – a Nimbus 2000 – held my sword out like a lance, and gestured for my Godfather to toss in some powder. He obliged me, and I shouted out "Château Zabini!" as I charged through.

Blaise attempted to meet me with an overhead strike, obviously under the impression that I'd be disorientated by the floo travel. The momentum from my broom and the floo, coupled with the cushioning charm we'd added to the practice swords last year to keep us from killing each other, laid my friend flat on his back. I did a little celebratory victory lap before landing next to him.

"Yield?" I asked cheekily, pointing my sword down at him. He groaned.

"Touché," he admitted, attempting to regain his breath. "And yield." He took a few minutes to stand up. "I can't believe you pulled that on me," he griped. I smirked, putting on my best Snape face.

"Says Mr. 'I haven't seen you in a month so I'm going to draw down on you within minutes of exiting your floo'," I snarked. "Besides, I think we've all learned a valuable lesson about floo safety," I added, unable to wipe the grin from my face.

"You are so getting resorted into Hufflepuff," he said, glaring down at me. I shrugged.

"Maybe we're just getting to familiar with each other's styles," I suggested. "We could get Seamus over here, or maybe Theo–" All humor left Blaise's face.

"Trust me, Draco," he said, grabbing my shoulders. "You don't want Theo, or Crabbe or Goyle, facing you armed right now." He dropped his hands to his sides, sighing. "Not as if they'd join us anyway." I wrinkled my nose.

"What do you mean?" I asked, suspecting the answer. Blaise sighed again.

"You got disowned," he said, "And the Notts, Crabbes and Goyles are heavily allied to the Malfoys," he added, unnecessarily. I grimaced. I should probably have expected it.

"And Seamus doesn't care because he's a half-blood and not tied into the politics yet," I finished for him. "So let's get him over here." I paused a minute. "What about Tracey and Daphne?" Blaise looked confused.

"What about them?" he asked. I spelled it out for him.

"The Greengrasses have always stayed neutral as far as these politics go, and Tracey's a half-blood herself," I said. Blaise shook his head.

"That's right, but I didn't think either of them could fight?" he thought. I was struck by a sudden image of a much older Tracey Davis, ironically at Blaise's side, as they followed Professor Slughorn in that desperate charge to reinforce the lines during the Battle of Hogwarts. I remembered watching Daphne take a Killing Curse to the chest, and feeling a momentary wonder how Astoria would react. I shook it all away.

"I bet they could pick it up quick if we gave them a chance," I said, not missing the look of concerned interest in Blaise's eyes. He walked over to the floo, shaking his head, muttering something about Hufflepuff and strange Muggle influences.

"Finnegan House," he called. "Seamus? You busy?" There was a short message from the floo before Blaise stepped back, letting a sandy-haired Irishman stumble through.

"Been living with those all my life, and still they throw me," he brogued. "Afternoon Blaise, Draco," he greeted. His eyes widened at the mess in Blaise's living room. "Did I miss the circus or something?" he asked. I grinned.

"Blaise and I hadn't seen each other in a month, and got a bit carried away," I said, then realized that sounded a little, well, not the direction I wanted to go with it. "We were dueling," I finished flatly. Seamus missed it, but I could see Blaise's eyes briefly cloud over with laughter before he caught control of himself.

We managed to drag Tracey through the floo to visit, but apparently Daphne was holidaying on the continent and unavailable. Still, four of us was better than three, and we managed to find out a little more about each others' strengths. Seamus wielded one of Blaise's spare swords like a cricket bat, and I resolved to find him a hammer or club or something if we continued this at school. Tracey, meanwhile, had a pair of long knives she'd inherited from a great-grandfather, and we were all thankful for the cushioning charm a few times after we realized we were leaving our close guard open.

The day passed beautifully, and I wondered, not for the first time, why I'd never bothered to make friends the first time around. This time, though, we would be not just friends but comrades-in-arms, and I worried already how I could make sure they survived the coming war.

* * *

If the summer passed quickly through reading, brewing potions with my Godfather and practicing swordplay with Blaise, Seamus and Tracey, it was clearly a good thing. The only downside was that I'd have to get my supplies sooner or later, and I was dreading the state of my meager savings after my unceremonious blasting from my family tree. Hogwarts was not exactly free to attend, tuition aside, and even though my Godfather sat me down and explained that the cost of my attendance had been paid as the ward of a teacher, I was still going to have to buy books and other things to help me last through the year.

A week before the end of August saw a stately Hogwarts owl soar through my Godfather's window.

"I'm not entirely sure why I can't just give you your letter myself," my Godfather griped, feeding the end of a sausage link to the grateful bird and tossing the cream-colored parchment to me. "It's not as if I work there and spend three quarters of my life in that drafty castle," he added, though he had a fond look in his eyes. I smirked, seeing right through his disguise, as I opened the letter informing me of my continued attendance at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Damn it, I'd forgotten about the Lockhart books. Ridiculous fraud.

"Godfather," I said, "We're going to have to go to Flourish and Blotts this year." I'd been hoping to avoid it, having found a copy of The Standard Book of Spells: Grade 2 on my Godfather's shelf. He raised an eyebrow.

"What could whoever they suckered into the Defense position possibly have assigned that you can't use from my library?" he wondered, gesturing to a shelf teeming with most of the more useful Defense Against the Dark Arts texts from the past thirty years. I sighed.

"The collected works of Gilderoy Lockhart, excepting only his autobiography, Magical Me," I groaned. "Useless prat that the man is, they're all still on the Daily Prophet's best-seller list and thus expensive." My Godfather sneered.

"I'll clear this with Professor Dumbledore," he barely managed to avoid spitting. "There has to be some allowance for alternatives or something. How else would the Weasleys manage to keep sending their infernal spawn to school?" He stepped over to the floo. "Hogwarts, Headmaster's Office!" The green flames leapt to sudden life as if kicked. "Albus," he said, much more quietly. "I'm coming through."

He was gone for only a few minutes before he returned, face paler than usual with barely-suppressed anger.

"Draco," he said. "I'm afraid you'll have to purchase the books." He stomped downstairs, and I could hear him breaking things in his lab. I strongly suspected he'd just found out about Lockhart. I poked my head down the stairwell.

"I'm going now," I said. "Maybe I can find something secondhand." A grunt of acknowledgement greeted my announcement, and I could hear Lily's confused hooting as she tried to calm my Godfather down. I strolled over to the floo, double-checking that I had both wand and money pouch. It would not do to be stranded at the Leaky Cauldron again. "Diagon Alley!" I announced, and stepped into the fire.

* * *

After exiting the Leaky Cauldron, I make a quick trek to Gringotts to gather coins from my increasingly-depleted Galleon supply before heading to Flourish and Blotts'. There weren't a lot of people there yet, which suited me fine. I may be forced to buy secondhand books, but I wasn't exactly interested in showcasing that just yet unless I needed to use the poor, abandoned child routine.

I couldn't find any secondhand Lockhart books, but I snuck a set upstairs with the rest of the used books, piled a little dust on them and switched the stickers from a relatively-new looking set of magical encyclopediae. After all, I might have to buy his books, but Salazar Slytherin would wake from his grave before I'd pay full price to that fraud.

I spent a little more time on that than I thought I would, so with a crowd gathering downstairs, I started to dig through some of the other previously-owned items upstairs. I found a much-annotated copy of A History of Magic which actually seemed to break down that subject into useful information, and it was actually affordable, so I added it to my little stack. I grabbed a copy of Goshawk's grade two spell book, since there were quite a few stacked there, and dug further back into the stacks, looking for buried treasure. I even found some.

By the time I came back out into the light, as it were, the store was packed with adoring fans anxious to see the world-class fraud. He was dragging Potter up with him – covered with floo powder though he was; I wondered where he'd come out since the Leaky Cauldron's floo was relatively clean – and I shot the Boy Who Lived a sympathetic grin. Fame was all well and good, but up there, Potter might as well have been a prop, and he looked like he hated it.

"Just these today, please," I said, passing up my by-now quite large stack of books up to a distracted-looking shopgirl. She started ringing them up, paying more attention to Lockhart's announcement that the school would be getting the real 'Magical Me' as a teacher, and I wondered for a moment whether she was still a Hogwarts student. Obviously not a Ravenclaw, though; as I recall, they'd poked holes in Lockhart's legend before even departing the train this year. And a Hufflepuff would put a little more care into her job, since she nearly rang up A History of Magic twice and missed one of the other books entirely.

I caught Molly Weasley looking at me with confusion as I bought the secondhand books, but studiously ignored her. Both our attentions were almost-immediately elsewhere, however, as we caught sight of what was almost – no, not almost, actually was – a full-on brawl between the Weasley patriarch and a tall man with blond hair and an aristocratic nose. I recognized him immediately.

"Arthur! Control yourself!" Mrs. Weasley exclaimed. "And you, Mr. Malfoy, shame on you as well!" With reluctance, they pulled apart.

"Here, girl, it's the best your father can afford," my father snarled, shoving a cauldron-full of books into the youngest Weasley's hands. He looked past the Weasleys to see me standing there, arms full of secondhand books. "Then again," he drawled, "at least you have a family." Leaving the redheads staring openmouthed, he turned on his heel and stalked away.

"Well, that could have gone better," I muttered. Potter and Granger, who had been standing back with a pair of Muggles who could only be the Grangers senior, joined the Weasleys awkwardly.

"Are you alright, Ginny?" Mrs. Weasley mothered. The youngest nodded, clearly embarrassed over something or other. "And you, dear?" she asked, and it took me a moment to realize she was addressing me. "Why did your father say such dreadful things to you?" she added. I shrugged.

"He disowned me in June," I admitted, to Mrs. Weasley's shocked gasp. "I've been living with my Godfather – you remember Professor Snape?" She nodded, looking unsure.

"Well, that's a comfort, at least," she finally said. "Having a young one around will do that man a world of good, haven't I always said so?" she mused.

"Of course you have, dear," Mr. Weasley agreed. Mrs. Weasley rounded on him as if just remembering he was there.

"And you! Arthur Weasley! Brawling in the street like a common... and in front of the Grangers, no less!" she upbraided him. "What an sterling example you're setting for the children! I know what that man said was horrid, but I thought I married a man with a certain sense of personal dignity! I hadn't realized..."

"Dad's done it now," one of the twins muttered, closer to me than to his mother. The other nodded.

"Let her get into full swing, he has," the other agreed. "Best thing to do?"

"Cut her off at the start," the first continued. "Distract her."

"Always works for us anyway," the other added. "Chin up, Slytherin," he said, clapping me on the back.

"If he's willing to just dump you out like that," the first said, "he's no family of yours anyway." The two twins walked away, gathering their pompous prefect brother and speaking conspiratorially in his ear, likely planning a rescue mission for their still-harried father.

I appreciated them crossing house lines like that; it wasn't often that happened between ours, especially between two families with histories as crossed as ours had. But I had more worries than my sudden lack of last name – I'd come to terms, as best I could, with my abandonment this summer. Occlumency helped. No, I was worried about what Lucius was doing in Flourish and Blotts' the day Hogwarts Letters came. I knew why he was in the Alley in the first place, since doubtless he still had to get rid of those dodgy poisons regardless of any changes I'd made to the timeline, but why the bookstore? And why would my father, who was nothing if not aristocratic, let himself be drawn into a scuffle? I couldn't place it, and it worried me all the way back to Spinner's End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Deathly Hallows, Slughorn and Charlie Weasley lead the charge of all the remaining students' families and friends to reinforce the defenders of Hogwarts. I strongly suspect that, like Slughorn, many of the Slytherins who evacuated would have returned to turn the tide, especially survivors like Blaise or those from neutral families like Tracey or Daphne, who would be much more keen to join the battle once they had a decent chance of winning. Later on in the chapter: So, Harry ends up in Nocturne Alley, since regardless of what Draco's done, Harry's still never used the floo network, and yes, if you haven't yet guessed, Ginny's ended up with the diary again. I don't see where Draco would ever have learned of its existence, since Lucius clearly never told him, and neither Voldemort nor Dumbledore would have wanted the existence and subsequent destruction of a Horcrux to be common knowledge. Thus, there are some trials in store for young Ginevra, for which I might otherwise apologize. I won't, though, since Rowling's made it pretty clear that the ordeal with Tom, despite scarring her for life, made her grow up and stop treating life like a pretty fairytale. I have no room for pre-break Sansa Stark in my fanfic, so diary-bound she goes.


	21. On the Hogwarts Express... Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which events happen on a train, as they often do each September 1st, the Sorting Hat sings again, and further consequences are explored.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "105. I am not allowed to bum cigarettes off of anyone under twelve."  
> \- 213 Things Skippy Is No Longer Allowed To Do in the U.S. Army

September 1st came around again, as it invariably did each year, and I found myself on Platform 9 and ¾, waiting to board the Hogwarts Express. As my Godfather was rather unused to dragging a twelve-year-old to a train platform on the first day of school, we were running rather late. Thankfully, my backpack was already mostly packed, thanks to some judiciously-placed Undetectable Extension Charms last year, and we made it on the platform just behind the perennially-tardy Weasley clan.

"Hurry, Draco," my Godfather chided. "Do not miss the train. I shall see you at school." With a flourish of his batlike teaching robes, the left the platform before several returning students could perish from fright. Taking his advice, however, I ran to make the train, leaping aboard only to run smack into Theo Nott. He sneered, and I wondered where the cheerful quidditch commentator from last year had run off to and left us with this carbon copy of an older me.

"I should have known you'd be late," he said with a huff. "No proper family probably means no wake-up, am I right?" I studiously ignored him, pushing past him to try and find a compartment, preferably without people like him in it. "Lost your manners and your backbone along with your family, then?" he called out from behind me, and I nearly went for my wand before thinking better of it. I was not, after all, a Gryffindor. A sudden, strong hand clapping me on the back surprised me.

"He's out of order," a Scottish voice said, and I turned to see my second-least-favorite person at Hogwarts, Ernie MacMillan, standing there. "I still don't like you, Malfoy, but there are lines, and he's crossed them. I'm sorry to hear about your family troubles." I nodded.

"Thank you," I said, brusquely. "I'm off to find a cabin, though, and I doubt I'm welcome in yours." For a second, a flicker of sympathy flashed across his eyes, before he quashed it and inclined his head in mild agreement. I grimaced, and headed further up the train.

I passed Luna Lovegood, all alone in a compartment, and briefly entertained sitting with her before I decided I didn't have the patience to deal with her, and alienating one first-year in my life was pretty much my limit. I shook my head. I hadn't given much thought to Pansy Parkinson, sorted as she was into Hufflepuff, but if I could manage it this year, I realized she deserved an apology. I'd been a horrible person to her last year, and even if I couldn't look at her without seeing the spite-filled harpy I'd known and loved – well, shagged, but close enough – this version of the black-haired, pug-faced girl hadn't really done anything wrong.

I passed the usual Potter, Weasley and Granger compartment, and was actually happy to see Longbottom in with them. He'd saved our collective arses in the third-floor corridor last year, and a Slytherin doesn't forget something like that too quickly. Now, if only we could do something about his unfortunate lack of casting ability. Not for me. Not today.

I realized, as I passed another occupied compartment, that I was thinking in terms of strategic moves in who I might join, and while I knew that sort of compartmentalization would come in handy during this war – hell, it all but completely enabled me to be an effective Occlumens – I flashed back to a happy summer with Blaise, Tracey and Seamus, and suddenly felt guilty. I resolved to sit down in the next compartment with room in it, regardless of who was there. The worst that could happen was I could get stuck with Eloise Midgen, and I was pretty sure she wouldn't be sorted until next year. I never really paid much attention.

I turned into the next compartment and sat down across from a little first-year, and no, it wasn't Eloise Midgen. I buried a grimace quickly, however, since I was now alone in a compartment with Ginny Weasley, and had only to wait on her older brother's legendary temper to start trouble. Still, I thought, better to make new allies – and prevent too many future bat-bogey hexes.

"Mind if I sit here?" I asked. Ginny didn't look up from the black book in which she was writing, but she nodded. "I'm Draco Malf... just Draco," I said, lamely, not wanting to use my last name as I was pretty sure I wasn't entitled to it. She still didn't look up from the book.

"I know who you are," she said. "I saw you in Diagon Alley. Your father was an arse." I actually caught myself smiling a bit.

"He is, at that," I agreed. "But not my father, at the moment, since he disowned me." I got a grunt in response. Clearly I was interrupting her busy writing. "Do I get to ask your name, or should I just assume from the red hair that you're the littlest Weasley?" I asked, and I actually managed to get her to put down the book as she flushed angrily.

"Ginevra. Ginny," she said. "Do you have a problem with Weasleys?" she challenged, and I put up my hands defensively.

"Not in general," I said. "I was just trying to get you to join the conversation." She had the good grace – no idea where she learned it, if her family was any indication – to look embarrassed, and closed the book.

"It's just a diary," she admitted, defensively. "Sometimes I feel like he's the only one who understands, you know?" I thought back to my Godfather's much-loved copy of  _Advanced Potion-Making_  and my own notes in the margins of  _The Way Things Work,_ and nodded.

"I think I can relate to that," I admitted. I dragged out my heavy Muggle book, and moved across to the seat next to her. "See?" I pointed out notes on the simple machines, and we both laughed over Macauley's mammoths.

"My brother's friend Hermione would go nuts if she saw this," Ginny said. "Writing all over a book like that? She'd be completely mental." I smirked.

"Joke's on her then," I said. "This was Granger's Christmas present to me last year." We shared a look at that and lasted a moment before bursting out laughing. We spent much of the train trip comparing notes on the book, and when we'd tired of it, she brought out the Lockhart, and we started mocking the little moving image, poking it and watching it run. She said she thought he was too pretty to be true, and I said smiles and pretty faces weren't everything, but not to tell my friend Blaise.

"What's that about me?" the subject of our discussion said, poking his head in. I saw Tracey and Daphne behind him.

"Nothing at all," I lied, smiling. "Plenty of room," I added. "If that's okay with Ginny here," I backpedaled, having momentarily forgot my companion. She nodded, gesturing to the seat across from her. Blaise's overly-pretty face – I fully expected him to start wearing makeup by this time next year – lit up in a grin.

"Excellent!" he beamed. "Seamus and some Gryffindor took over our cabin and are yelling at each other about Quidditch and something called football, so we thought we'd come find you and seek sanctuary."

"Two birds, one stone. Definitely Slytherin thinking there," Tracey griped, pushing Blaise into the compartment. Daphne followed her, smiling sunnily as she usually did.

"Blaise Zabini, Tracey Davis, Daphne Greengrass, might I introduce Ginny Weasley," I gestured, overly pompous. I admit, I tried my best to sound like her brother Percy, but a wink toward the little Gryffindor-to-be spoiled the impression, I'm sure, and she giggled. Blaise bowed dramatically, Tracey smiled and shook her hand, and Daphne joined her giggling before staring out the window at the passing scenery.

We passed the next hour debating the various merits and flaws of our new Defense professor, and though I saw Potter walk past, do a double-take, make an amused smile and continue on, I didn't see hide nor hair of Ginny's older brother before it got dark.

"Time to get changed into robes, I suppose," Daphne said. "Shoo, Draco, Blaise." Blaise smirked.

"As you command, your majesty," he said, before Tracey pushed him out of the cabin the way he'd come in. I followed, the same amused smirk on my face. Down the hall, I saw Potter, Weasley and Longbottom, clearly in the same mess.

"Good summer, Potter?" I drawled. To my surprise, he nodded.

"Uncle Vernon made some business deal on my birthday and took them all to Majorca, and I got to stay with the Weasleys," he confirmed. That would explain it. "And 'Potter'? I thought we were still on first-name terms this year, Draco?" he queried, humor in his eyes. I grinned cheekily.

"First Quidditch game hasn't happened yet," I said. "I have to decide you're worthy of first-name privileges then," I added. Weasley was looking at the two of us like we'd each grown two heads.

"When'd you two get so chummy?" he grumbled. Potter clapped him on the shoulder.

"Come on, Ron, we're just talking trash. He knows we're going to cream Slytherin at Quidditch this year, so he's got to get his kicks in now, right?" Weasley smiled.

"I suppose you're right," he said. Excellent job diffusing the situation, Potter, I thought. Ten points to Gryffindor. And then everything exploded.

"We're done, boys," Tracey said, walking out with Daphne and Ginny into the trolleyway. I caught sight of Weasley's face getting progressively redder and all but shoved Blaise into the compartment.

"MALFOY! WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH MY SISTER!" he bellowed, pounding on the door. I whistled nonchalantly as I changed, observing the usual propriety, which left me unable to catch the inevitable grin on Blaise's face. The banging stopped about the same time as we finished getting changed, and then there was a loud thud. Longbottom opened the door.

"He'll come round," he said. "Remind me not to annoy Hermione," he added, pointing at Weasley's petrificused body.

" _Wingardium leviosa!_ " Granger added, dragging her friend away with an apologetic grimace. I laughed a little bit, then turned to Ginny, worrying suddenly that I'd offend her by laughing at her brother. She didn't look angry, though, just suddenly unsure of herself.

"What's wrong, Red?" I asked her. She looked up at me, suddenly shy.

"You're all Slytherins?" she asked, very quietly. I smiled, nodding.

"Did we sound studious enough to be Ravenclaws?" Blaise snarked, earning an elbow to his gut from Tracey. Daphne moved over to Ginny, giving her a little hug.

"We don't bite," she said. Ginny shook her head quickly.

"Oh, no, I didn't mean that," she quickly said. "I just... I had fun. I wasn't expecting it." I couldn't help but be a little touched, and I remembered that she hadn't touched her diary since she put it down that first time. I hadn't even seen the little thing since then.

"Come on, Red," I said, breaking the suddenly awkward silence as the train ground to a halt in Hogsmeade. "You'll miss the boats. Just find the large, coarse man with the lantern," I added, trying to balance my distaste for Hagrid with the charitable things I knew she'd likely heard from her family.

The last thing I saw of her before she disappeared in a sea of first-years was her blazing hair.

* * *

"Your attention!" boomed the Headmaster, standing before the assembled masses, eyes twinkling madly. "Welcome to another year at Hogwarts!" Cheers filled the Great Hall, and, caught up in the moment, I even joined in. "In just a few short minutes, we'll adjourn to the feast, but for now, please join me in welcoming the Hogwarts Class of 1999!"

The doors opened wide to show a crop of first-years looking completely awestruck. I saw a few faces I recognized among them, including Ginny and a dreamy-eyed blond who was obviously Luna Lovegood. As the hall clapped, McGonagall came and placed the ancient hat on the stool, leaving the firsties with an even more confused look on their face.

It made a sound like it was clearing its throat – which I've never understood, since it's a ruddy hat, isn't it? – and broke into song.

 

_"Through all the years I've sorted here,_  
all the faces that I've met,  
one thing has become very clear:  
you're blinded to the threat  
of making house identity,  
losing track of who you are  
what's worse, worthy of pity  
is that we have come so far  
from where it was we started:  
for it's said, when this all commenced  
Hufflepuffs weren't just kind-hearted  
but full of common sense.  
Ravenclaws weren't merely brilliant  
but had thoughts for themselves to spare  
and Gryffindors, not just resilient  
but kind and true and fair.  
And though ambition in the den  
of snakes will find a home,  
the most respected Slytherins  
for cunning and service were known.  
So go ahead and put me on,  
I'll sort and send you to your friends  
But give some thought to what I've said  
Or Hogwarts will face its end."

Well, that was something new. Not that I'd been paying attention the first time around, what with being busy gloating over Potter's probable explusion, but I was pretty sure the hat hadn't started fearmongering until at least fourth year. The mildly disturbed look on Professor Dumbledore's face only confirmed my suspicion, even as McGonagall called "Creevey, Colin!" to be sorted into Gryffindor.

I ignored the hat, mostly, watching the rest of the students. The Slytherin table was divided, as I'd somewhat expected it to be. Nott and his flunkies – unfortunately, I'd thought Vince and Greg had been a little more loyal this time, but I was wrong – were at the other end, and the older students whose families were aligned with my father. My end was populated by sons and daughters of families too young to be political, like Marcus Flint and Millicent Bulstrode, half-bloods like Seamus and Tracey Davis, and a few from families generally considered neutral, like Blaise and Daphne. Most of us were ignoring the sorting almost entirely, except to clap whenever the hat called out "SLYTHERIN!" Even then, I watched the first-years quietly pushed to one end or the other.

Scowling, I turned my head to the other tables as the hat put Lovegood into Ravenclaw. I followed her with my gaze as she skipped over to her house table, where her new housemates looked skeptical but were clearly reserving judgement. Most of my year already had their heads buried in books, but a couple were furiously scribbling down notes regarding the sorting. I'd have to trade Anthony Goldstein a favor for the list, since I couldn't afford to simply buy it off them anymore.

I looked over at the Hufflepuffs and saw Pansy laughing with Hannah Abbott and Susan Bones; I was shocked to see her with genuine happiness on her face. Her smile faltered when she saw me looking at her, but she turned away and refused to let it get to her. Progress, I supposed. I met MacMillan's eyes, and it was clear he'd seen the exchange. He didn't quite glare, but he didn't quite smile, either. I'd not realized Hufflepuffs had such depth.

Uncomfortable under his gaze, I turned mine to the house of dunderheads – Gryffindor, that is. Apparently I'd spent too much time with my Godfather over the summer. Potter and Granger were furiously whispering to each other, probably discussing the hat's song, while Weasley looked longingly at his empty plate. Longbottom merely looked amused and unsure of his inclusion in the little group. Suddenly, at something the hat had said, all four heads snapped toward the front. I'd missed whoever was sorted, so I followed their gaze to the stool.

Taking the hat off her head with a determined expression, staring straight ahead without meeting anyone's eyes, "Weasley, Ginevra" stepped down from the stool in the sudden silence of the hall. I suppose McGonagall must have pursed her lips, at the sorting or the murmuring that began immediately after, but I didn't see. My eyes were drawn to the first-year walking past the Gryffindor table, walking past her brother and his friends without daring to look at them, walking past Nott and his cronies without bothering to look at them. She said not a word until she stood opposite me, between Tracey and Daphne.

"Budge over, Greengrass," she said quietly, and sat down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may have picked up, Dobby (freed by Draco toward the end of "Last Second Chance") was not privy to Lucius' plan this time around, and thus did not attempt to stop Harry's return to Hogwarts. Therefore, Vernon makes his business deal, Harry does not receive a warning from Mafalda Hopkirk for improper use of magic, Harry and Ron can board the platform, and Vernon takes Petunia and Dudley for a vacation in Majorca to finish out the summer, leaving Harry with the Weasleys. Draco, as we'll recall from "Last Second Chance," was an utter beast to Pansy before they'd even been sorted; Ernie defended her, along with several other Hufflepuffs, and she ended up sorted into the House of the Badger. She's managed to work hard at not being a horrible bitch, so we are reminded that Hufflepuffs are not to be trifled with. As for this chapter's Ginny: Ron himself says she's normally very talkative, except around Harry. Something about it being difficult to get her to shut up. Also, no, this is not ZOMG True Luv! or something like that. She's eleven! And Draco's actually talked with her for all of a couple hours! Gah! Anyway, Draco is currently busy being the center of his own universe. There will be no shipping this year. At all. Our beloved prat hero needs to grow up some more first.


	22. The Flaw in the Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Draco doesn't know as much as he thinks he does and forgets an immensely-critical plot point, leading to disaster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "97. Gozer does not dwell in my refrigerator."  
> \- 213 Things Skippy Can No Longer Do in the U.S. Army

Lockhart was as ridiculous the second time around as he was the first. The only thing making it better is that I knew end-of-year grades, especially in Defense, didn't matter unless they were assigned as part of O.W.L.s or N.E.W.T.s. Especially this year, since the pompous popinjay's first test seemed to be a question of how well we'd followed his so-called career.

Unfortunately, I was stumped on question one: Name. Draco Malfoy? Draco No-Longer-A-Malfoy? I vaguely recalled someone telling me about a prefix or something to indicate an illegitimate child, and wondered if I was technically a bastard now. FitzMalfoy? It didn't flow very well. I put it down anyway.

Name: Draco FitzMalfoy. House: Slytherin. There were two questions down. What is Gilderoy Lockhart's favorite color? Damned if I cared. I wrote down "fuschia;" it seemed like something he'd say. Secret ambition? I was going with "to make boatloads of Galleons before the paternity suits caught up," and added "conning Dumbledore into giving him this job despite an utter lack of talent" for his greatest achievement.

I snarked through the rest, unable to keep a straight face, but it wasn't like Lockhart was paying attention. Not since Granger had presented him with a mirror before class, anyway. Now he couldn't pay attention to anything else.

What is Gilderoy Lockhart's favorite Quidditch team? Now I actually was stumped – as to why anyone would care. Maybe we needed to know these things so we'd have blackmail material against them team in case they died of shame? I'd pretty much guessed he was a Gryffindor, though, so I put "Slytherin House Quidditch Team" down.

I resigned myself, as I handed in the so-called "essential knowledge" test, to learning very little that year. At least, I thought, I could pick up any missed second-year knowledge at the library. Lockhart was, of course, grandstanding about the front of the classroom as we turned them in. I hoped the rest the year's classes would be a bit better, but I didn't have Lockhart again for a week. Thankfully, the prat assigned little homework; only to read the first chapter of one of his books.

I spent the first weekend in the library with Blaise, Tracey and Daphne. Seamus was content to skive off studying, but since we – and, it appeared, most of Ravenclaw house – wanted to learn something this year, we were stuck doing research on our own.

"It's wonderful to see such concern for your studies," Madam Pince commented as she stalked past us, a handful of discarded texts in her arms, the day before our next double Defense class. Blaise snorted.

"Well, someone has to care about them," Tracey said reasonably, "since obviously the git doesn't." Unfortunately, Pince overheard her, and we found ourselves kicked out of the library on a warm September evening. Daphne shook her head.

"I was just sitting there," she complained. "How is it fair for that squib to kick out a whole table for one comment? I should write the board of governors." The rest of us rolled our eyes as we walked back to the common room, where we were met by Marcus Flint. Despite his usual tendencies toward monosyllabic conversation, he was surprisingly forthcoming this evening.

"Quidditch tryouts Saturday!" he enthused. "You three are trying out, right?" he said, addressing me, Blaise and Tracey – Daphne hadn't shown much interest in Quidditch in the long term, and she obviously wasn't offended at being left out. We all nodded.

"Good," he said. "We did well last year, thanks to you all, but the usual team's suspensions have been lifted, so I'm having tryouts he said." I raised an eyebrow.

"Trying to be fair, Flint?" I said. "Careful, people will start thinking you're a Gryffindor or something." He laughed it off, and I was suddenly found myself wondering where he sat at dinner and where his politics lay.

"Naw, I just want to win," he admitted. "That means getting the best people on my team, especially as it's my last year." I frowned, distinctly remembering Flint on the team during my third year.

"I could have sworn you were coming back next year," I observed awkwardly, and he shook his head.

"I was thinking about trying to repeat a year, maybe get another year's worth of captaining under my belt before trying out for the big leagues, but I'll be fine," he said, and I wondered when Flint had started trusting me enough to open up like that. He seemed to realize what he was doing, though, and put that determined smirk on his face again. "Especially when we dominate again this year," he added, and we went our separate ways.

**-o-o-o-**

Lockhart's class hadn't really improved by the second session.

"I am shocked – shocked! – at how well most of you did on my first little quizzie!" Lockhart gushed. "Especially Miss Hermione Granger, who was able to correctly answer all but one question. By the way, my dear," he whispered conspiratorially to the blushing Gryffindor, "I consider my most epic battle to be the defeat of the Wagga Wagga Werewolf, as described in my book  _Wanderings With Werewolves,_  but I admit, the climactic clash with the Brookshire Basilisk does come a close second for me!"

Well, he certainly had a talent for alliteration, I thought, then did a double-take. Basilisk. Suddenly, second year came back to me in quick flashes. "It's using pipes," Flint said after Clearwater was petrified. "Potter's the heir of Slytherin," Ernie MacMillan was telling Hannah Abbott. Potter himself was speaking in Parseltongue after my little cobra trick during the dueling club. Snake. Giant snake. Petrification. I dug out  _Break With a Banshee_  from my bookbag. "Badon Banshee, Brooklyn Alligator, Chicken of Bristol..." I muttered under my breath. "Here it is – Brookshire Basilisk." Digging through the purple prose, I found the passage I was looking for.

"Spiders flee swiftly from it, for it is their natural and eternal foe," I read, and remembered Weasley's stories about the car and the acromantulas. "The terrifying gaze of the dreadful basilisk turns will surely slay any victim unlucky enough to meet it, but luckily, I had my golden-gilded mirror with me. One look at its own baleful eyes and the vicious creature was petrified! Obviously, with the creature turned to cold and brittle stone, it was the work of a moment to dispatch it, saving the grateful village forever."

Mirrors. It was all done with mirrors. "You'll be next, Mudbloods," I heard myself saying seven years and an eternity ago, gazing at a puddle of water and a petrified cat. Tiny Colin Creevey, petrified through his camera lens. Clearwater and Granger, found with a mirror in her hand. Justin Finch-Fletchly – through the ghost? Sir Nicholas, unable to die twice. But who would know more about it? I knew the chamber had been opened forty or fifty years earlier. Had students been petrified then, too? I could check the records, but...

"Last time," I remembered telling Crabbe and Goyle, "a Mudblood died." I blocked out my memory before I could remember the feeling of wishing Granger dead. A Muggleborn had died at Hogwarts. How many had died over the years? In that time period? Father said she'd died in a bathroom. Then a thought struck me: what if she'd never left? I almost fell out of my chair.

"Something the matter, Mr. FitzMalfoy?" Lockhart asked, drawing confused murmurs from the rest of the class. "Or were you just embarrassed that you didn't get a single question right on my little quiz?" I shook my head.

"I need to be excused, Professor," I managed to say. "I need to find a bathroom." I wasn't even lying.

**-o-o-o-**

I really didn't want to go in there. Aside from the fact that it was the girls' bathroom, which didn't exactly bother me much anymore, since rules were made to be broken, I had some pretty awful memories of my own in that particular room.

Pushing the door open, I deliberately avoided looking at the spot on the floor where I'd almost bled out after Potter and I dueled. In the long term, I could push aside the terror and pain, thanking Potter for teaching me  _sectumsempra_ , but right here, at the scene of it, I wasn't sure I could handle it.

"Myrtle," I called out. "Might I bother you for a minute of your time?" I asked, in what I hoped was a winning tone. I kept my voice from trembling; I really didn't want to talk to the perpetually-morose ghost again, as even her voice held memories for me of unhealing wounds and losing my life's blood all over the bathroom floor.

"Ooh! What's a boy doing in here?" her voice came from one of her toilet stalls, bringing up a rush of memories despite my clamping down with Occlumency. "Shouldn't be in here," she added. "Might get caught, and then where would poor Myrtle be? ALL ALONE!" she bellowed again, diving into her toilet bowl with a sploosh. I rolled my eyes, hoping she couldn't see me.

"I'll just join you in your stall, then," I said, pushing forward to talk to her. "Myrtle," I contined, feeling mildly stupid talking to two disembodied eyes in the toilet's water. "Please come back out. I want to ask you something." Slowly, she raised her head from the bowl, then the rest of her.

"Is this a trick?" she asked, and I could feel, for a moment, that she really was the ghost of a fifteen-year-old girl, still vulnerable and shy after nearly fifty years. I shook my head, and held out my hand for her to climb out of the toilet. She looked at it suspiciously, but pulled herself fully from the bowl. I fought back a shudder; not out of fear, of course, but at her absolutely freezing temperature. Myrtle cautiously strode around me, as if determining that I wasn't hiding anything to throw at her. "What do you want to know?" she finally asked, as if satisfied I wasn't going to start chucking things through her head.

"How did you die?" I blurted out, not knowing where else to start. She eyed me with strange curiosity, then smiled and clapped her hands once.

"Ooh, nobody ever asks me that!" she gushed. "It was simply  _awful_ ," she confided. "I was in this very stall, bawling my eyes out because that utter cow Olive Hornby had said the most  _dreadful_  things to me," she started, but cut off immediately. "Legs up," she whispered, and put the toilet seat down for me to stand on. Confused, I did what she said, only then hearing the door to the lavatory open. "Stay here," she hissed, turning around.

"Who's there?" she asked, ready to tell them to go away. There was a terrible grinding noise, and the stall door flew open. Through Myrtle's translucent form, I was staring directly into two enormous, golden eyes, and then there was something bitter on my tongue and my eyes were blinking in the June sun floating through the hospital wing windows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Per the Potter films, Lockhart is actually a Ravenclaw (much to our eternal shame). However, considering all Draco can judge by is Lockhart's tendency to act first and think never... Okay, so Potter Wiki says Ginny first opened the Chamber of Secrets on September 8th, despite Mrs. Norris not being petrified until Halloween (it doesn't source this claim, so I'm a little skeptical of it, but it fits the timeline of my story well). If you're wondering why I'm skipping much of Chamber of Secrets, it's because one of my other stories, "Disturbing the Universe," takes place entirely during that year, and while I've not gotten around to putting words on paper for more than the few chapters I've got up, I do have most of the plot planned out and don't want to mix my fics if I can help it.
> 
> And random disclaimers make the world go round; I'm re-posting the ones I started putting at the chapter tops on FF.net here at the bottom.
> 
> "J.K. Rowling may be a Hufflepuff, but there's nothing wrong with that. After all, the canon and setting I'm using are hers, and where would we be without that? As someone reminded me last night, honey badger doesn't care what you think."


	23. June in the Hospital Wing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Draco demands answers, and even gets a few of them; in which the Heir of Slytherin is revealed, Draco suffers his first major setback (other than spending a year petrified), and much exposition is accomplished at the expense of dealing with verbosity. What now, word count?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "No plan survives initial contact with the enemy."  
> – Murphy's Laws of Combat

Madam Pomfrey managed to resist the temptation to silence me, as the first thing out of my mouth when I woke up was a string of profanity that would likely have made Hagrid blush (technically it was the second thing, if you count the spoon with the remains of the Mandrake Restorative Draught still contaminating it. Why must all useful potions taste awful?).

"Under the circumstances, I can't say I blame you, Mister Malfoy," the mediwitch said, drolly, "but I require you to keep a civil tongue in your mouth while you're in my infirmary." I tried my best for a cheeky grin, but it came out a disgruntled grimace. I nodded anyway, taking stock of my surroundings.

To the surprise of absolutely nobody, I was joined in the hospital wing by Harry Potter – in his usual bed. Someone had graciously strung a sign over it reading, in passable handwriting, "Reserved for Mr. H. J. Potter, Gryffindor House." Unlike most of us, he was smiling, and bore a wide array of cuts and bruises all over his face and neck. The arm I could see was covered in a thick bandage, though it was clean and unsullied by blood or grime.

Further adding to the Gryffindor stereotype of looking well before they leapt, several more members of Godric's house appeared to be filling beds around Potter. Granger and Weasley were in the next two, with that disgusted look on their faces that told me they'd recently learned the Joy of Mandrake themselves. I could barely see tow-headed Colin Creevey's mop behind them, so apparently the other victims – and I definitely needed to stop classifying myself as that – weren't limited to our year.

Nor were they limited to one house – a fourth-year, whom it took me a moment to recognize as Cedric Diggory, was further down, next to a still-unconscious Pansy Parkinson. A Ravenclaw I didn't recognize was beyond them, and I sighed when I recognized Terrence Higgs, the seeker I'd replaced, behind him. With both me and Higgs in the hospital wing, our Quidditch team must have been dreadful this year. Potter noticed my gaze, and shook his head, smiling ruefully.

"You'd think so, wouldn't you?" he asked. "But nope – second overall in league, behind us." I tilted my head.

"How?" I asked. "I mean, if Diggory was benched, sure, maybe Hufflepuff, but Ravenclaw too? I thought they had some seventh-year as seeker?" Potter messed with his hair, looking over at Weasley, who was listening raptly. Quidditch unites all peoples, apparently, though for some reason Potter looked a little guilty.

"Um, your seeker got the snitch before theirs did," he said, lamely. I nodded.

"So Higgs wasn't petrified until after the game," I surmised aloud. Granger shook her head.

"No, he was barely two weeks after you," she said, and Weasley enthusiastically nodded.

"Yeah, I remember, Dean and Seamus and I were all talking about it right before..." he trailed off.

"Right before you got petrified," Potter finished flatly, clearly annoyed at having to spend the year without his two best friends. "How did you manage to avoid dying, by the way?" he asked. "Ginny, Luna, Neville and I managed to figure out where the beast was coming from, but we didn't even know it was a basilisk until Lockhart died." I boggled, all thoughts of Quidditch momentarily tabled.

"Wait, it killed Lockhart?" Weasley asked. Granger made a disappointed face. "That's unfortunate," he added lamely. Clearly, Weasley mourned Gilderoy Lockhart as if he was his own father. Potter rolled his eyes.

"Last week, actually," he said. "Right before the end of it all. Apparently," he said, "the ponce had left his 'antique basilisk-slaying blade' in his office and skipped off to get it." He scowled. "Apparently," he continued, "his office is somewhere on the grounds toward Hogsmeade, since his body was found face down in the entrance hall as if running for the door." Granger's face went from mournful to scornful so fast, you'd think she had a time-turner.

"Coward," she spat. "He was supposed to be the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher! Imagine running away and leaving a school full of children to a basilisk!" She threw her arms around her in a huff. Weasley smiled at her comfortingly. Well, disarmingly, anyway. Charmingly empty-headed. Something something parentage. I had nothing; apparently the Mandrake Restorative Draught affected my comeback technique.

"So Quidditch," he changed the subject back before I could inquire fuller on the Chamber of Secrets. "Who played for Slytherin and beat the Ravenclaws?" I couldn't exactly fault Weasley; after all, I wanted to know too. But at that moment, Ginny burst through the hospital wing doors, still dressed in green Slytherin robes and Quidditch pads. Crowded behind her were Neville Longbottom, still wearing red and gold and carrying a Gryffindor flag, and Luna Lovegood, wearing a giant snake hat that occasionally echoed with a menacing hiss.

"You know your team's worthless without you, Potter," she said. "310 to 180, by the way," she added, laughing. "I'd have been here sooner, but the game ran long. The boys and Tracey are washing up, but they're on their way." I grinned, partly at my team's victory in my absence, partly at the gobsmacked look on Weasley's face, and partly at the scowl on Potter's.

"She got you on her side, Luna?" he asked, half-chiding, half-amused. The tiny Ravenclaw nodded.

"This time, Harry Potter," she said. "But I've found some notes on a lion hat for next time," she promised. I laughed.

"Fair's fair, Potter," I said, grinning at Ginny, who suddenly had a guilty look in her eyes that I couldn't quite place. "I could have sworn we were scheduled to play earlier, though," I added as an afterthought. Ginny smirked.

"This was for the Cup," she said. "The first game, they won," she admitted. "I mean, first game ever, on an old Cleansweep, and I have to go against Harry freaking Potter and his Nimbus freaking 2000?" She pulled her hair, which had been pulled back in a tight tail, out of her hairband. "Completely unfair." Potter grinned at her.

"You're just mad because our chasers are better than yours," he said, smirking. Ginny shook her head, but it had the effect of making a mane out of her, well, mane.

"Your chasers have been playing together for longer," she said, finally making her way to Ron. "Hey, big brother," she said. "I'm really glad you're not dead," she added, lamely, before hugging him and covering him with a Quidditch game's worth of dirt and grime. "There," she added, ruffling his hair. "Now you and Potter match." She smiled fondly at her older brother, and Granger chuckled.

Everyone looked like they had a bit more to say, but we were interrupted. Having finally woken all the petrified people, Madam Pomfrey chose that moment to return to us.

"If I had my way, I would keep you all here for another night of bed rest," she started in her usual brusque manner, "But Professor Dumbledore seems to believe that a night of frivolity with your houses should do you all good, and I'm willing to allow it, so long as you take it easy." She turned to glare at Higgs, who was enthusiastically pulling on his Slytherin robes.

"That means no firewhiskey, Mr. Higgs," she warned. "I realize you're of age now, but by Helga's Hammer, if I hear you've been drinking after I so generously let you out of the hospital wing, I'll make you repeat your seventh year entirely in this room, do you understand?" He nodded sheepishly, and the mediwitch turned to the rest of us.

"As for all of you, I'm sure you can find your way back to your common rooms," she said, waving her hands in a gesture of dismissal. "Mr. Diggory, if you and Ms. Chang would escort Ms. Parkinson; I think she may have had the worst of it," she said behind us, and I kicked myself for not recognizing the Ravenclaw earlier. Well, maybe something would start between her and Diggory earlier and she wouldn't be too much of a weeping mess to ignore her best friend selling us all down the river in a few years, I reasoned.

I was just turning to follow Higgs down to the Slytherin common room when Longbottom grabbed my arm.

"Come with us, Malfoy," he said. "Room of Requirement," he added at my inquisitive look. "There's more explaining for the four of us to do, and Ginny said you needed to be there for some reason." I nodded, made my excuses with Higgs, and trundled off behind the others.

* * *

Unlike the aristocratic dinner table setting I'd used last year, or the utterly-cluttered Room of Hidden Things I'd wasted a year in the first time around, the Room of Requirement looked like a mildly cramped sitting room with windows looking out onto the English countryside. What had to be a secondhand couch in Gryffindor colors faced an ancient, but welcoming, fireplace which roared warmly. Despite this, and the obvious June heat in the real world outside, the room seemed comfortably warm, the fire's heat contrasting with a chill coming in through the windows.

I suspected this was Ginny's house in the winter, and the other Weasley's amused gaze confirmed it. I guessed, however, that the Weasleys didn't have the second, smaller couch – a loveseat, I think the Muggles called it – trimmed in Slytherin green, or the completely overstuffed armchair in blue and bronze which Lovegood sunk down in with a contented sigh. Playing the room's little game, I took the loveseat with Ginny, while Longbottom, Potter, Granger and the other Weasley managed to fit just fine on the couch.

"So where do I start?" Potter asked, curious. "Malfoy, you were the first one petrified." I shook my head.

"It had to have started before that," I said. "I didn't exactly petrify myself, after all," I added, and felt Ginny rustle beside me uncomfortably. We all looked at her.

"It started with me," she said, suddenly the meek first-year I'd remembered from the first time around. "With me, and with a very, very evil book." I perked up at this. "A diary, actually," she said, and my eyes widened. She looked at me and nodded. "Draco found me reading it on the Express here," she said. "I was confiding in it, since I felt like I hadn't been able to talk to anyone else," she said. Weasley perked up at this.

"Ginny, I'm your brother," he said needlessly. "You know you can always talk to me." Ginny smiled sadly, and shook her head.

"Ron, you know that's not entirely true," she said gently. "We used to be best friends, but you went to school and didn't write me at all as soon as you had Harry and Hermione. Then, when you came home, all you could talk about was school, until Harry came to the Burrow," she added. I noticed she was using first names now, and gathered the last-name basis was a combination of Quidditch trash-talk and Slytherin cunning in front of Higgs, Diggory, Chang and Parkinson – not to mention Creevey. Weasley nodded.

"I s'pose you're right," he admitted, showing an uncharacteristic amount of awareness. "But I'll work on it," he said. "You're my sister, and family is important." I bit back a smile. I agreed, of course, but that was pretty much one of the unofficial Malfoy family mottos as well, and I didn't want to go down that road right now. Ginny continued.

"So when Harry came, I felt even more alone, even when Hermione was there," she said. "You three had this thing I couldn't possibly break into, and of course that ridiculous crush left me completely unable to talk to Harry for more than the time it took me to put my elbow in butter," she admitted, smiling now. Harry looked confused.

"But we're twelve," he said. Ginny rolled her eyes.

"I did say it was ridiculous, didn't I?" she said. "I had this myth built up of the Boy-Who-Lived, and I couldn't put that together with the boy my age who was friends with my brother. So after Tom showed up in my cauldron, I confided in him." My blood ran cold.

"This cauldron wouldn't be the one you were carrying at Diagon Alley?" I asked, slowly, dreading the answer. Ginny looked at me strangely.

"Yeah," she answered. "And Tom – the diary – showed up that day too. At the time, I thought it was a gift from Dad," she said. "But it wasn't, was it?" she asked, noticing, as I'm sure everyone did, that my hands were gripping the seat cushions tight enough to put holes in them.

"No," I ground out. "It almost certainly wasn't." I was thankful for the Room of Requirement's generally fireproof status (fiendfyre notwithstanding), as I didn't trust my magic to keep still. "Lucius must have slipped it in the cauldron during his little fight." Weasley jumped up and started yelling, Potter looked murderous, and Ginny's eyes were suddenly filled with such blazing light I thought I might burst into flame right there.

"EVERYONE SHUT IT!" Longbottom bellowed. "Ron, you don't even know why you're mad," he said reasonably. "Harry, Ginny, we'll deal with Mr. Malfoy later. We're telling a story right now." With that, he sat down, and I once again was reminded of the man standing with the burning embers of the Sorting Hat falling around him, facing the Dark Lord with nothing but an ancient sword and borrowed courage.

"Fine," Potter said, and it clearly wasn't, but if he wanted revenge on my father for putting his friends and allies in danger (I knew which of those descriptors fit me), he'd just have to get in line. I leaned over and whispered into Ginny's ear.

"You and I can take care of it," I hissed. "He'll get his, and your father can help." Her scowl slowly faded into a predatory grin before settling somewhere in between, but the blazing look in her eyes refused to go away.

"Fine," she said, "but it had better be good, and I reserve the right to involve Fred and George if I don't like it." I nodded.

"Duly noted," I agreed. "Continue, please," I gestured grandly, drawing a smirk from Longbottom.

"In any event, Tom wrote back, and seemed to understand me," Ginny continued. "I was pretty much under his control before the train, but you guys listening to me helped like you wouldn't believe," she said, nodding to me. Weasley looked dubious, as if a group of Slytherins could never be of any help, but kept quiet – a first, I know. "So I put the diary away, and I thought I'd be fine, but then the hat put me in Slytherin," she said.

"What's wrong with that?" I asked. "Didn't you just say you'd enjoyed your time with us?" She glared at me, but the full force of her Weasley wrath wasn't behind it.

"Draco," she said flatly, "how many girls are in my year in Slytherin?" I shrugged, and she nodded. "One. Me." Comprehension dawned.

"And it's a big room," I said. She nodded again.

"And someone wasn't talking to me," Ginny added, shooting a glare at her older brother, who had the courtesy to look completely guilty.

"It took a while for me to get used to the idea," he said. "I was kind of shell-shocked there for a while, wasn't I?" he added, looking to Potter and Granger, who nodded in agreement.

"He was, actually," Granger admitted. "It's one of the reasons he started coming to the library with me of his own free will," she added, getting an elbow from Weasley for her trouble. "What?" she asked. "It's true." Ginny cleared her throat.

"Not blaming anyone," she said. "Except Tom – and Lucius Malfoy," she added quickly. "But Tom took control back pretty quick," she said, shuddering. "You have no idea what his mind is like, even just a piece of it in a book," she said, grimacing. "It's completely overpowering." Ginny looked up at me again. "That was about the end of week one," she said, "and that was when I blacked out." Weasley and Granger were paying rapt attention, but it was Longbottom who continued.

"Malfoy, you ran out of class that day, and we didn't find you until after dinner," he said. "Zabini and Finnegan even dragged Dean and I around the school to help look when you weren't at lunch or dinner." I smiled. Loyalty wasn't entirely alien to the house of the serpent, after all, even if the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs were better known for it. Potter kept up the story.

"When they found you, nobody was sure what had happened," he said. "I was in the hospital wing that night due to a minor Gobstones-related injury, and – shut up!" he elbowed Weasley. "Anyway, I overheard Pomfrey saying they had no idea what had petrified you. Lockhart claimed it was some sort of banshee, but by that point, we were learning to ignore him," Potter said.

"Yeah, it  _was_  about a week in by that point," Weasley agreed. "So anyway, things were quiet for a few weeks after that," he said. "But Harry, Hermione and I hadn't figured out why by the time we got petrified." Ginny nodded, picking the story back up.

"I put times together, and realized I'd been blacked out when you were petrified," she said. "I asked Tom about it, and his reply was pretty off, something about blood traitors and regrettable causualties of war," Ginny said, face turned down in disgust. "Needless to say, I tried to get rid of the diary at that point." She huffed. "I didn't know who found it until about a week ago, though, and we'll get to that later," she said.

"Anyway, Terrence Higgs was next," Lovegood said, "and Cho followed closely after that. I suspected Nargles were behind it at the time," she breezed, "or possibly a Blibbering Humdinger." She sighed. "I was wrong. Nargles wouldn't kill anyone," she said. Granger boggled.

"Kill someone? When did that happen?" she asked. "I mean," she said, "Ronald and I had been researching it in the library, and we remembered Lockhart was talking about a basilisk just before you bolted, so we looked it up." Weasley nodded.

"And Lockhart kept prattling on about that mirror of his, so we put two and two together," he said. I bit back a comment about not knowing he could. "Well, Higgs was in the middle of a flooded corridor, and Chang was found with her mirror, but she's pretty vain so we didn't really think much of it at the time," he explained. "And since Myrtle was just as petrified as you were, we weren't really sure what had happened to you," he added, courteously leaving off the implied 'and I didn't care' from the end of the sentence.

"But then I thought you might have seen the basilisk through Moaning Myrtle," Granger said, "and since she couldn't die again, she was petrified too." I nodded.

"I did, actually," I said. "I suppose I owe her some thanks." Granger nodded.

"Anyway, Ronald and I were heading to Professor McGonagall's office to tell her when the basilisk found us," she said. "But we were carrying a mirror of our own by then, just in case, and we got petrified instead." Weasley nodded.

"That thing was huge," he said. "I don't fancy being whoever has to take care of it." Potter and Longbottom exchanged glances, and Lovegood started to giggle. I felt Ginny stir beside me, sitting on her hands, and could see the beginning of a smile on her face. Potter killed the mood.

"So then Penelope Clearwater died, and they dragged Hagrid off to Azkaban," he growled. "Because apparently he opened the Chamber of Secrets last time fifty years ago, and nobody bothered to investigate whether or not he was actually guilty." Lovegood stopped giggling.

"By that time, Ginny and I were friends again," she said. "And we were visiting with Hagrid and Harry when Fudge and Malfoy came to arrest him." She frowned. "How someone as incompetent as that man ever managed to get his hands on an army of heliopaths is beyond me, but daddy swears it's true." With that helpful aside, she yielded to Potter.

"Anyway, Hagrid made some cryptic comments about following spiders, so we did," he said. Ginny shook her head ruefully. "Worst mistake ever, really," Potter admitted. "Interesting sidebar: there are acromantulas in the Forbidden Forest," he shuddered. "And Firenze and Magorian asked to be remembered to you, Malfoy," he added. I put two and two together.

"The Centaurs saved you again?" I asked, and he nodded to confirm. "Figures," I muttered. Ruddy horsemen wouldn't lift a finger to help last time, but since someone had already 'set themselves against the stars,' they could interfere however they wanted this time.

"Long story short is that Hagrid was raising a baby acromantula during the time the Chamber of Secrets, and the school used the spider – Aragog – as a scapegoat for being the chamber. Hagrid was expelled after one of the Slytherin prefects, Tom Riddle, turned him in." I raised an eyebrow.

"That guy with the huge award for special services to the school?" I asked, remembering polishing the trophy room at one point or another. Potter nodded.

"Three guesses what Tom got it for," Ginny said, scowling. I glanced at her.

"Same Tom?" I asked. She nodded, and shoved her shoulder against me. Apparently I was as slow on the uptake as Weasley. "So Hagrid was arrested," I continued. "Then what happened?" Longbottom scowled now, a look utterly alien to his still-pudgy face.

"The Board of Governors sacked Dumbledore," he said. "Apparently they felt he was unable to maintain order in the school." I shook my head, rolling my eyes for maximum effect.

"No prizes for guessing who was behind that, I assume," I groaned. Lovegood nodded.

"Your father does seem to be firmly in Fudge's pockets," she said, and added, at my confused look, "since he's apparently his wallet." Oh. That made sense. I suddenly wondered about my sanity.

"Anyway," Potter continued, "Pansy and Cedric were petrified about a week later, along with the Fat Friar, and Colin Creevey a few weeks later," he said. "They were already talking about closing the school, but McGonagall convinced the governors to last at least until the end of the year. Then last week happened," he said, grimacing. Longbottom took over.

"So we were all banded together by that point," he said. "Lockhart got killed, and we figured out it was a basilisk. We couldn't guess why only two people had died, but we were working on it. Harry and I were walking back from Potions when we heard that a student had been taken into the Chamber itself. McGonagall called for everyone to go back to their common rooms, but you know how Harry has a saving-people-thing," he said. Potter shrugged, and I resisted the urge to facepalm. Once again, Potter had managed to almost get himself killed before he could kill my pet Dark Lord for me.

"So Luna and I met them at the Chamber," Ginny said, "because I'd finally figured out where the creature was coming out." I nodded.

"Upstairs girl's loo," I said, then smiled at the sudden looks of incredulous disbelief on everyone's faces. "What? I dragged it out of Myrtle before the two of us were petrified." Potter looked like he was going to hit something.

"So anyway, Harry opened the Chamber," Ginny said. I broke in.

"Wait a minute. I thought only the Heir of Slytherin could open the Chamber of Secrets?" I commented. Harry rolled his eyes.

"Apparently I'm a Parselmouth," he said. "It's not exactly a secret anymore," he added to Longbottom's glare. "So I opened it using Parseltongue." I nodded.

"That makes more sense," I admitted. It was nice to finally work that one out – I never had the first time around. "So you went down into the Chamber of Secrets, and obviously something happened there. So spill." Potter shrugged.

"There weren't a whole lot of stairs, and the whole thing's pretty unstable, really," he said. "We got to the bottom fine, if a little grimy – but then the roof collapsed." Ginny scowled.

"Yeah, it cut me and Luna off from the boys, which was pretty bad, but we were able to get out using my broom," she said. I tilted my head to look at her curiously.

"I thought you were using the school's cleansweep?" I asked. She blushed.

"I, uh, may have nicked yours from your dorm room," she admitted, to my incredulous stare. "What? It wasn't as if you were using it, and I figured you'd want Slytherin to win the other matches." I bit back a scowl. She had me there. I settled for frowning and nodding. "It's fine, by the way," she said. "It's locked up on the pitch whenever you want it back." I kept nodding. Longbottom cleared his throat.

"Uh, so, Harry and I moved on, and found the chamber itself," he said, somewhat self-consciously. "So we see Nott lying on the ground, and–"

"Wait, as in Theodore Nott? What was he doing down there?" I cut him off. Potter broke in.

"He had the diary in his hand, actually," he said, and I could feel Ginny shift again beside me. "It had been draining him pretty hard. But we didn't know that just then." I nodded. Weasley cut in at this point.

"Wait, that could have happened to you, Ginny?" he asked with his usual lack of tact. She nodded, and without a word, Weasley got up from his Gryffindor couch, walked over the Slytherin one, and embraced his surprised sister in a hug before walking back to the red and gold couch. "Continue," he bade Potter as Ginny smiled beside me.

"So anyway, Nott was lying there, and we ran over to him, trying to wake him up," Potter said. Longbottom sighed.

"And I dropped my wand in the confusion," he admitted. "So when Harry looked up and saw someone there, he was holding my wand." Granger blinked.

"Who was it?" she asked, likely suspecting Snape or maybe my father. Potter grimaced.

"Tom Riddle," he said. "Tom Marvolo Riddle." Something in the way he said 'Tom' shook loose memories of a night I'd really rather forget, but never would be able to.

* * *

I was watching Potter in the Great Hall, as he stepped between Molly Weasley and the Dark Lord. Not that a  _protego_  charm would do anything against an  _Avada Kedavra_ , but the shock alone was enough for the few remaining Death Eaters to stop fighting momentarily.

"It's over, Tom," he said, circling the Dark Lord. "The Horcruxes are destroyed – all of them. The diary, the ring, the locket, the cup, the diadem and the snake." It almost looked like the Dark Lord shuddered, but he quickly recovered.

"It doesn't matter, Harry Potter," the Dark Lord hissed in that frustratingly creepy high voice of his. "I am still the better wizard, and I control the Elder Wand." I couldn't break out of the flashback before I saw once again the awful look the Dark Lord placed on me when Potter told him that I had, however briefly, been the master of the Elder Wand, and their banter continued.

"So think hard, Tom, and try for some remorse," Potter said. "Because I've seen what you be if you can't feel remorse, and I wouldn't wish it on anybody." And the Dark Lord ignored him.

" _Avada Kedavra!_ "

" _Expelliarmus!_ "

* * *

"Tom Marvolo Riddle?" I said. "Seems an odd name for anyone." Potter nodded.

"I was confused too, but Tom started monologuing," he said. I smirked. Just like the Dark Lord, really. It should have been obvious, in hindsight. "He kept talking about how he'd deceived poor Nott, and though the waste of his pure blood was a shame, it was worth it for him to be reborn." Potter shook his head, regretfully. "I wish I'd known he wasn't fully back yet. We might have been able to save Nott." I boggled.

"What do you mean, save him?" I asked carefully. Potter sighed.

"The diary drained him entirely," he said. "Riddle killed him." I drew a short breath.  _One down,_  I thought.  _I've lost one already._  A little voice that sounded suspiciously like the Sorting Hat whispered back.  _What was Lockhart, nothing?_ I forced it down.  _Never again,_ I thought.  _Not one more_. Potter gave me a moment, then continued.

"He said it was worth it to resurrect the greatest sorcerer who ever lived. Of course, Neville and I were having none of that," he said. Longbottom looked equally bashful and proud.

" 'Albus Dumbledore is the greatest sorcerer who ever lived,' we told him," Longbottom said. "Obviously that cheesed him off a bit," he added, smiling. "He said something about Dumbledore being kicked out of the castle by the mere memory of him. Then he told us who he actually was," he said. At our confused looks, he waved his wand in the air, spelling out three words, then rearranging them.

TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE.

I AM LORD VOLDEMORT.

"You were possessed by YOU-KNOW-WHO!" Weasley bellowed at his sister, launching himself into another massive hug. "You're the most amazing sister ever," he whispered – I doubt anyone else could have heard it, but I was sitting right there.

"Then he sicced his pet on us," Longbottom said, and shuddered. Potter took over. By now, only he and Longbottom had been seen the end of this, so the rest of us were all paying rapt attention.

"At that point, Fawkes – the headmaster's phoenix?" he paused to make sure we were mostly familiar with the creature. We all nodded, Lovegood making a comment about having seen him just after a burning day. "Fawkes came down into the chamber, scratching the basilisk's eyes out, which was obviously a good thing. Riddle was furious," Potter said. "He started casting curses at me, so I dove behind a pillar and started firing back. I kind of lost track of the basilisk at that point," he admitted. "I found out later Riddle was a seventh-year when he made the diary, so he wasn't exactly at the height of his power, but I was still pretty outclassed." Longbottom nodded.

"Fawkes dropped the Sorting Hat into my hands," he said. "And it kind of clunked, so I reached inside, and a sword came out." He sighed, remembering. "Apparently, it was the sword of Godric Gryffindor," he said, still in awe. "Professor McGonagall said it's been lost for ages." His face hardened. "With it, I slew the basilisk." We waited for a moment.

"And?" Granger prompted. "Just like that?" Longbottom blushed.

"Uh, it took a while. And I got bit," he said, "But Fawkes cried on me, so it all turned out for the best." He obviously took attention even worse than Potter did. Granger obviously wasn't satisfied, but Weasley elbowed her in an effort to move on.

"So meanwhile, Harry's dueling Baby You-Know-Who, and takes a nasty curse to the arm," Longbottom said. Potter perked up.

"Yeah, I still don't know what it was," he said. "Nasting cutting thing, but it wasn't  _diffindo_ or anything like that." I shuddered, having no idea where a 17-year-old Dark Lord would have picked up  _Sectumsempra_ , since my Godfather had invented it years later, but didn't say anything. Potter confirmed my suspicions. "Professor Snape had apparently seen it before, though," he said. "He healed it right up later on." He shrugged.

"Anyway, I managed to lure Riddle in front of the basilisk, and he doesn't see it coming," Potter said. "Neville pulled it past us, and I hit Riddle with a tripping jinx. He went down, and the snake pounced." He swallowed. "Instinct, I suppose. But that was all it took. Neville killed the snake shortly after that." I shook my head.

"That's pretty incredible," I said. "But I don't know how much of it is going to be believed outside of this group," I added before he could start congratulating himself. Potter nodded.

"Dumbledore believes me, and he thinks it's pretty important that we don't spread too far how close Voldemort came to making a return," he said. I nodded.

"Yeah. No sense in causing a panick," I agreed. "But I assume my Godfather knows?" I asked. Oh, crap. I realized I hadn't even said hello to my Godfather since I woke up. That was something that would have to be rectified immediately. Potter nodded.

"Yeah, Professor Snape knows, since he was healing me," the Boy-Who-Kept-Living-Despite-His-Irritating-Tendenc y-To-Throw-Himself-Into-Danger said. "Oh, I almost forgot," he added, looking around. "There's one more person who wants to say something to you." I tilted my head curiously.

"Theo, you can come out now," Potter said, and a wispy apparition in Slytherin robes floated through the walls of the Room of Requirement.

"I'm so sorry, Draco," Theodore Nott said. "I was wrong. About everything." Salazar's Teeth, if I had a sickle for every time I'd heard that over the years, I suspect I'd have a sickle. Slytherins are a prideful bunch, after all. Witness me: I could barely think of anything at all to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter. I totally can't remember if I made Cho seeker of the Ravenclaw team already. I doubt I did, and I think she didn't make seeker until Prisoner of Azkaban in canon, so I think we'll be fine. As for girls in Ginny's year, we're assuming Astoria Greengrass is at least two years behind Daphne, so Ginny's pretty alone in her dorm. And seriously, Salazar's Teeth, long chapter. I got distracted in the middle of this by another plot idea, so if you happen to see a story up on my works page called "Colin Creevey: Hero of the Imperium," you'll know when it came from (Edit: the opening chapters of "Colin Creevey: Hero of the Imperium" were also lost in the Great Hard Drive Crash of 2012). 
> 
> I'm going to cut this chapter here, and get back to wrapping it up with the train-ride home. This ran longer than expected, for obvious reasons, and Draco has been left kind of reeling. Shock will catch up to him in the next chapter, for sure – as well as a discussion with his Godfather regarding the true nature of the enemy they face. One thing to note: Draco has no idea that Harry is a Horcrux. Harry, for obvious reasons, didn't announce that in front of everyone, so Draco never found out. Dumbledore is beginning to suspect, and with the book acting how it did and spawning a fully-corporeal Tom Riddle, is likely to proceed on the path left to him by canon. Also, our villains haven't really had a chance to be proactive, but year three should change that. Once again, Draco not having all the answers means he's going to make a mistake.


	24. Interlude I: Malfoy Manor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which fallout occurs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Friendly fire isn't."  
> – Murphy's Laws of Combat

"I can't believe you!" Narcissa Malfoy hissed, picking up another pieces of – highly expensive, Lucius thought – antique crockery. "What in Merlin's name do you mean, 'it wasn't my fault?' " She threw the vase at her husband, missing his head only because years of serving the Dark Lord had taught him well how to sense incoming danger. "Of COURSE it was bloody well your fault, Lucius! It's always your fault!"

"I didn't know it was going to release a bloody snake!" Lucius complained, hiding behind a seven-thousand-Galleon dragonhide couch and looking longingly at his wand, still in his cane and halfway across the room. "It was just supposed to make that raging oaf Arthur Weasley look like the fool he is," he said, ducking one of his exceptionally-well cobbled leather boots. Honestly, he thought. Who threw a shoe?

"And how," Narcissa asked through her teeth, holding up the boot's mate and looking she thought a reunion was called for, "was it supposed to do that?" She didn't give him a chance to answer before she tossed the other boot at his head. "Because the Weasley girl's little note said she'd been posessed! POSESSED, LUCIUS!" she shrieked, looking for more ammunition. Lucius didn't bother coming out from behind the couch.

"I honestly hadn't thought it through," he admitted. "It was one of the Dark Lord's possessions; I figured it was obviously cursed," he said. He heard a shriek of indignition, and suddenly the back of the couch was pierced by two swords, a spear he hadn't remembered owning and – Salazar's Teeth, was that an axe? Where had she found that? He looked up to see Narcissa glaring down at him over the back of the couch.

"Let me get this straight, Lucius," she hissed. "You slipped the daughter of a department head a cursed object owned by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named out of some petty rivalry, and this is supposed to somehow improve our family's lot? And to top it off," she moaned, turning around to settle down on the couch between the spear and one of the swords, "you almost got our son killed, after removing him from the safety of our home where you could at least have warned him... and will you stop that infernal thumping noise?" Lucius popped his head up.

"What thumping noise?" he asked, listening. There it was again – they both heard it. They looked at each other in confusion, then at the front door, just as it burst in.

"Auror Office!" a tall, imposing black man in cerulean robes bellowed. "We have a warrant to search these premises for dark objects," he added, seeing the two Malfoys finally. Lucius sneered as he sized Kingsley Shacklebolt up, noticing the tall, confident man in auror robes and the pink-haired young woman in trainee robes behind him.

"Come right in," Lucius said darkly. "We, of course, have nothing to hide." He cursed, inwardly, but doubted the Aurors would find anything beside the odd poison. He'd have to pay a fine, of course, but it would inevitably be pitiful next to the cost of replacing his door. And his couch, he mentally added, as he looked at his wife.

"I'm glad you feel that way," Arthur Weasley said, stepping out from behind Shacklebolt. "Because personally?" he grinned like Minerva McGonagall after eating a Canary Cream. "I think you have plenty to hide." And Weasley unrolled a scroll of parchment, which nearly reached the floor. "Dawlish, Tonks, better check out the secret chamber under the drawing room rug," he said, to Lucius' cringe. "For the very start."

* * *

"Why do they even  _have_  that button?" John Dawlish whinged, wiping some undeterminable goo from his hair as Nymphadora Tonks – just Tonks, thanks – giggled next to him. "So," he said, attempting to regain some dignity, "What do we have so far, again?" Tonks cleared her throat officially.

"A vault full of ancient torture devices proscribed by the Edinburgh Goblin Treaty of 1604; three soul-drinking weapons not to include the spear found in the couch above; the ancient runeblade Samarkand, thought lost when Death Eaters raided the Museum of Magical Antiquities in Cairo back in the 1970s," she paused to catch her breath. "A cellar full of unregistered Atlantean antiquities, including but not limited to a full suit of Imperial Guard armor and what may well be the second-to-last bottle of wine from that city if that pompous Angel living under London has lost his; three casks of Greek fire, any of which are considered Weapons of City-Wide Destruction under the Goblin Re-re-re-unification Treate of 1342 and together are just shy of a Weapon of Mass Magical Destruction under the Inernational Confederation of Wizards – and we didn't think any really existed!" Dawlish cut her off, taking the inventory from her.

"What appears to be a Grindelwald-era Panzer tank enchanted to withstand the might of a Muggle atomic bomb; fifteen vials of unregistered basilisk venom; not less than three authentic copies of the Necronomicon, including one in the original Enochian; the wand of Abdul al-Hazrad; not less than twenty three unregistered wands and three more of dubious actual workmanship," now Dawlish had to pause for breath. "Ahem. Five blood quills; not less than fifteen gallons of poisons ranging from mildly debilitating to outright lethal; a necklace possessed by the spirit of a dead elder god and thought destroyed at the dawn of the millennium; two genuine demons outlawed by the Unseelie Accords and hidden in the forms of albino peakocks, and a Class C Non-tradeable Partridge in a Pear Tree." He snorted, looking at the door in front of them.

"And now this," Tonks agreed. "I wonder if we should open – oops!" she cried, tripping over a discarded gauntlet and slamming against the handle. "I guess that answers that question," she said, sheepish, as Dawlish glared at her. "What's in there?" She asked, as the door slowly swung open.

Dawlish suddenly felt as if he were holding his grandmother in his arms, feeling her bleed out in front of him as the two thugs finished murdering his parents. He knew it wasn't real – he'd become an Auror to fight that feeling of helplessness, and he was an Auror now! But her blood was so cold, so cold...

Cold.

Dementor.

" _Expecto Patronum_!" he cried, and a draft horse, silver all over, leapt from his wand to where the thing hovered, leaning over Tonks. "Back, foul beast!" he bellowed, dragging Tonks from the room and slamming the door shut behind him. He shuddered, needing chocolate badly, and Tonks wasn't much better.

"And a Dementor," he said, breathing heavily. "That should be plenty to indict him."

* * *

"Lucius Malfoy," Kingsley spoke, his rolling baritone more authoritative than soothing. "You have been placed under apprehension by the Auror Office of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Under Ministry Decree Number 406, ratified by the entire Wizengamot, I am required to present you with your rights and explain what is happening. At this time, I am going to place you in magical restraints, for your own safety. Attempting to resist this apprehension will result in magical countermeasures, ranging from stunning to incapacitation to death. You do not have to say anything to me, or to any other member of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand these rights as I have presented them to you?"

"Yes," Lucius spat. He wasn't entirely sure how Weasley had found everything. Surely, some of it had to come from Draco, but even his – now-disowned – son didn't know about half the hidden rooms the Aurors had found. One thing was for sure, he mused, he wasn't getting off with a light fine.

"You're nicked!" Tonks giggled, to Dawlish's scowl and mumble about lightweights. Neither had been able to find any chocolate in the kitchen, though they had found some chocolate liqueur, and assumed it couldn't hurt.

"What happens now?" Narcissa asked Shacklebolt. He shrugged.

"I can't speak for Madame Bones or Mr. Scrimgeour," he said, "But I would expect your house will be seized, along with most of your assets." He nodded at Lucius. "Your husband will be held at the Ministry, pending trial. Given his years of service, it's unlikely he'll be moved to Azkaban before his trial." He raised an eyebrow as Narcissa nodded matter-of-factly, pulled on a coat, and made to leave.

"And where are you going, Mrs. Malfoy?" he asked. She turned her head before leaving.

"To find a solicitor," she said. "A really good one."


	25. Train Rides and Plotting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Draco actually makes progress in identifying the full extent of his enemy, pretends to be a seer, and plans to fight a war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "208. Not allowed to play into the deluded fantasies of the civilians who are “hearing conversations” from the NSA, FBI, CIA and KGB due to the microchip the aliens implanted in their brain."  
> \- 213 Things Skippy Is No Longer Allowed to Do in the U.S. Army

Crammed into a compartment on the Hogwarts Express with Seamus, Blaise, Ginny, Tracey and Daphne, I checked my watch for about the third time this hour.

"What time is it, Draco?" Ginny asked, amused. I smirked.

"Well, Miss Weasley," I drawled, channeling the old Draco as best I could. "It seems to be just about that time." She grinned.

"Did my letter help?" she asked, impishly.

"I suspect it must have," I said. "And if your letter to my mother didn't, my letter to your father certainly did," I added. "Yes, it should be just about that time." Blaise and the others were looking at us like we'd grown separate heads.

"Look, I know you were out for most of the year," he said, "But what's her excuse?" She glared at him.

"We were just working on some really excellent revenge," Ginny said. "Something I figured you would understand, Blaise," she added, some of the force leaving her tone. He shrugged.

"Revenge I get. It's the leaving the rest out of it that leaves me blindsided," he said. I shrugged, as if to say, what can you do? "So what happened?" All humor left his face, and as the other three leaned in, I realized he wasn't entirely talking about the revenge. I glanced at Ginny, since most of it was her story to tell, and she nodded.

"The Dark Lord's coming back," I said. "He left something with my father, and it's what released the basilisk this year." Seamus paled underneath his freckles, Tracey gave an "eep" that was far more feminine than usual, and even the unflappable Daphne Greengrass raised an eyebrow. Blaise narrowed his eyes, calculatingly.

"How?" he asked. I nodded, considering how much to tell him. Ginny didn't know all about the Horcruxes yet. "We're working on that," I admitted, recalling a similar conversation just a few days prior with my godfather.

* * *

"Godfather?" I asked, peering around the unlocked door to his office. "I'm awake and all," I added lamely, kicking myself for not at least saying hello before heading off to the Room of Requirement to talk with Potter and his odd group of friends.

"Come in," my acerbic godfather drawled. "I was beginning to wonder if I still had a godson," he added. "I thought perhaps Madam Pomfrey's near-perfect record had finally failed her, and I should live out my days untroubled by swordfights in my living room." I rolled my eyes as I sat in front of his desk. He sat behind it, grading final papers with a quill full of red ink and a self-satisfied smirk on his face. I hung my head.

"I'm sorry I didn't come see you earlier," I said. He looked up, his eyes dark, and I wondered if he actually had missed me or was just being his usual self. I almost didn't hear him.

"I'm rather thrilled you're not dead, godson," he murmured, and I knew we'd be alright. He resumed grading papers, and I sat there, enjoying the quiet scratch of quill on parchment, before he continued. "You'll be pleased to know your classmates didn't learn much this year that you don't already know," he said. "Although that insufferable Granger girl was doing fairly well before she, like you, went and got herself petrified." He snorted. "You would think, without Weasley in my class and with Longbottom showing a remarkable dedication to not blowing himself up this semester, I would have had a quiet year," he said. "But no. Your little example of inter-house cooperation last year led to an inter-house disaster team in Finnegan and that Thomas boy from Gryffindor. A cheering potion isn't exactly supposed to be flammable, let alone explosive, but leave it to you dunderheads to find a way to prove me wrong," he said, stabbing the parchment with a flourish to leave a T at the top of some unfortunate fourth-year's essay. I waited until his pen was down before I asked my impertinent question.

"Did we learn any potions using basilisk venom as an ingredient?" I asked, attempting to go for innocent and ending up somewhere between foolish and cheeky instead. My godfather picked up the quill again, and looked at me like I'd just admitted to setting the Sorting Hat on fire.

"Basilisk venom is a Class C Non-tradeable substance," he said. "As such, it is not on the O.W.L. curriculum. Why do you ask?" he queried, dipping the nib in his well of red ink again.

"Because there's a hundreds-of-years-old basilisk corpse freshly decaying under this school," I reminded him. He snorted.

"Yes, in an abandoned chamber blocked by rocks, behind a door openable only by Parseltongue, in the sink column of a disused lavatory guarded by a hysterial, weeping apparition, with – since the Weasley twins got ahold of it – a sign on the door reading 'beware of the leopard!'" he spat. "Not to mention that Longbottom, who has absolutely no reason to be fond of me whatsoever, killed the beast and thus has rights to its corpse," he added. I nodded, as if these were all points I'd considered.

"Well, Longbottom generally goes along with Potter, and Potter's a Parselmouth," I said. "You could ask him to help you recover the beast, and pay Longbottom the wholesale out of the school's funds." My godfather sneered.

"Potter," he spat, "has even less reason to provide me a favor than Longbottom, and the feeling is, quite obviously, mutual." He shook his head, obviously annoyed at the loss of such valuable potions ingredients, and poured himself a few fingers of something I assumed was firewhiskey. I smirked.

"You could bribe him," I said. He snorted.

"On a teacher's salary?" he asked, incredulous. "In any event, Potter's miscreant father was quite well off; I don't know what I could possibly offer him." I waited until he'd raised the tumbler to his lips.

"You could offer to help destroy the Dark Lord's Horcruxes," I said, and was rewarded with the completely expected sight of Severus Snape shooting firewhiskey out of his greasy, protruding nose.

"The Dark Lord's what now?" he sputtered. "What is a Horcrux?" he asked, attempting to hide his knowledge of the darkest of magics, and failing entirely. I rolled my eyes.

"Godfather, I did grow up a Malfoy," I said. "Horcrux. A dark magic in which, through murder, a piece of one's soul is hidden, preventing one from dying." I grabbed a tumbler over his protests, pouring firewhiskey for myself. "I suspect the Dark Lord had at least one, since he was able to last long enough to possess Quirrell last year," I said. "And that diary that possessed Ginny Weasley and Theo Nott sounded far too similar for me to ignore," I added. He nodded, rubbing his head.

"But it's destroyed now, isn't it?" he said. "The essence within the diary would have been consumed when it consumed Nott, letting Voldemort live again." I shook my head.

"I don't think it was the only one," I said. "Lucius always said the Dark Lord spoke of how he'd gone further in his pursuit of magic and immortality than any wizard in history, and I'm pretty sure Herpo the Foul made at least two." My godfather poured himself a double.

"We should tell Dumbledore," he grumbled. I nodded.

"We could do that," I agreed, "or we could act like Slytherins, and have all the information and all the cards stacked in our favor before we manipulate that old Gryffindor into finishing our job for us." I smirked. "Personally, I have a feeling I wouldn't be involved at all the moment he heard about it, and you'd probably end up doing grunt work behind enemy lines." My godfather groaned at me.

"I suppose you're right," he admitted. "I'll start digging into Voldemort's memories. See if you can't find us some more information on that front before we get home for summer," he added. "And what's all this nonsense about your last name? Lockhart seemed convinced you'd changed it to FitzMalfoy or something before his untimely demise." I rolled my eyes, and produced an official-looking envelope. "What is that?" my godfather asked, glaring at it like it was James Potter reborn or something.

"A cease and desist order," I drawled. "From my father's solicitor. Apparently I have a year to stop calling myself a Malfoy or face criminal prosecution." My godfather placed his head in his hands.

"Of all the petty... when did he send it?" he asked. I shrugged.

"Sometime while I was petrified," I said, "which really goes to show you the tact of my father's legal staff." My godfather snorted.

"Lack thereof, more likely," he said. "What do you plan to do about it?" I shook my head.

"Given the likely return of the Dark Lord, I'll count myself lucky if I, my father, and my father's solicitor are all still  _alive_  in a year's time," I said drily.

* * *

"So how sure are you he'll be coming back, then?" Seamus asked, back on the train. "I mean, we're all pretty sure he died after he killed Potter's parents," he added. I raised an eyebrow.

"My godfather is convinced, and the Headmaster is as well," I said. "So I'm pretty sure." Blaise shook his head.

"That's going to make things complicated," he understated. Ginny tilted her head.

"What do you mean?" she asked. Daphne, no stranger to politics, answered.

"He means there will be a pretty strong rift within Slytherin," she said, and Tracey nodded.

"Nott isn't an issue anymore," she said, coloring slightly, "and Crabbe and Goyle are pretty useless on their own. But the upper years – and some of the younger ones – are going to be divided," she said. Ginny nodded.

"What does that mean for us, then?" Seamus asked.

"We'll have to be ready to defend ourselves," he said. "Not exactly guaranteed after Lockhart and Quirrel." Ginny snorted.

"That's for sure," she agreed. "Got any ideas?"

Blaise and I looked at each other. No doubt he was thinking of our dueling practice first year and over the summer. I, on the other hand, remembered the trouble Potter's little homework club gave Umbridge and the Inquisitorial Squad our fifth year, the first time around – and even more so, Longbottom and Ginny's revival during our seventh. Either way, however, our thoughts ran fairly parallel, and we grinned.

**\- End Year Two -**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here we are, leaving second year behind. Up until now, the changes from canon have been pretty slight, and our villains haven't had much active reaction to Draco's effort. All that changes come third year. In canon, the first year introduced most of the characters, the second year laid the seeds for all the plot to come (re-read the series after having finished Deathly Hallows, and goggle like I did at the many, many things foreshadowed in Chamber of Secrets). The third year is where everything started to happen. Pettigrew escapes to resurrect Voldemort, Sirius and Lupin are introduced, Lucius Malfoy's influence is revealed (he was introduced back in second year, but until now, Draco's 'my father will hear about this!' threats were pretty toothless), and the series tends to pick up a bit. In third year, too, we learn that the ministry isn't exactly as benevolent as some people think it is – we got a hint of that in Chamber of Secrets with Hagrid's arrest, but meeting Fudge for the first time kind of hammers that in. Anyway, if you're still reading with me, keep on keeping on. Life's going to get interesting pretty quick. The cast is mostly introduced; the seeds for plot laid. Now comes the rest.


	26. YEAR III TITLE PAGE

## A Slytherin at War Year 3:

**Draco Malfoy and Advancing to the Rear**

* * *

_"Retreat? Hell! We're not retreating, we're just advancing in a different direction!"_  
\- Maj. Gen. Oliver Smith, United States Marine Corps


	27. Field Training

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Severus Snape is further manipulated by a couple teenagers and is not as bitter as he seems, we enjoy the return of Remus Lupin even if Snape does not, and everything prepares to go completely to pot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "199. I should not confess to crimes that took place before I was born."  
> \- 213 Things Skippy Is No Longer Allowed to Do in the U.S. Army

"You want me to do what?" my godfather asked Blaise and I, a week later at Spinner's End. We'd just returned from a bit of catching up with our fencing, since I'd been unconscious for most of the year and Blaise felt my muscle memory probably needed some refreshing. Really, I was just thankful he was still talking to me, since I only needed both hands for the second part of the duel – something he found out when I suddenly lunged a good three feet deeper than he expected, dropping him on his arse.

"Well, you remember how Lockhart was a fraud?" Blaise asked. No respect for the dead, apparently, but then, did any of us? My godfather nodded carefully.

"Obviously," he drawled, "since I had to endure a year's worth of staff meetings with the pompous oaf." Blaise nodded in agreement.

"Well, a few of your second- and third-year Slytherins suspect it might be useful to have some proper grounding in basic defense techniques," he said. My godfather snorted.

"And you learned nothing from Quirrel your first-year?" he asked, clearly taking it for granted that none of us had learned anything from Lockhart. I shook my head.

"Well, he had the Dark Lord stuck in the back of his head," I drawled. "It does tend to make us doubt his credibility." My godfather's sneer grew into something resembling a smirk.

"If I were to agree to such a Gryffindorish notion," he said, "where were you planning on holding this little educational soiree?" He looked around the cramped sitting room. "After all, even if I were interested in having more than the one, or occasionally two," he raised an eyebrow at Blaise, "teenagers running around this place, it's hardly large enough for spell drills." I cleared my throat.

"Actually, we've had two offers," I said. "Chåteau Zabini," I started.

"Obviously," my Godfather said. "And?"

"The Burrow," I mumbled.

"The what now?" he asked.

"The Burrow. The Weasley house." He raised one eyebrow, in a move perfected over years of barely-suppressed sarcastic response.

"Molly Weasley actually invited a group of Slytherins to practice magic, in direct contravention of the Reasonable Restriction for Underage Wizardry, on her family's property?" he asked, obviously incredulous. I swallowed.

"Well, no," Blaise admitted. "But she did invite her older son's friend to stay for the summer, on the grounds that she'd make sure they both did their summer homework, and Ginny is pretty sure she can convince her mum that this is the same thing." My godfather continued to favor us with a blank look for a moment, then surprised us both by actually laughing.

"I suddenly realize why that damnable hat put her in my house," he said, when he'd calmed down a bit, then he became stern. "And what are the other reasons you want me to teach you Defense?" he asked. Of course, I realized, very few Slytherins ever did anything for just one reason. Blaise and I looked at each other, and I nodded.

"Well, there's the likelihood that the Dark Lord is returning," Blaise said, "and that means a rift in Slytherin worse than the one this year by a long shot." Snape nodded.

"And you want to be able to defend yourself," he finished. Blaise nodded.

"Well, given that our little group of half-bloods, blood traitors and neutral families are likely to be pretty tempting targets, yes," he agreed. Snape shook his head.

"You're going to want to continue this throughout the school year," he said. Blaise and I nodded, but my godfather continued shaking his head. "It would be most impolitic of me to continue to step on your Defense teacher's toes, as it were, once the school year begins," he said. "After all, I took great relish in kicking that worthless ponce, Lockhart, out of my potions lab, despite whatever expertise he claimed to have in antidotes to Amortentia." He tilted his head.

"Actually, given his fan base, he might actually have been telling the truth there," my godfather ruefully admitted. "Not that it matters now," he said. "But no, until Headmaster Dumbledore actually allows me to instruct in Defense Against the Dark Arts, I won't take someone else's job like that." I shrugged.

"Who's the DADA teacher, then?" I asked. "I heard you took the last few weeks after Lockhart died." He nodded.

"So I did, but on a temporary basis only, as did the Headmaster when I had Potions to deal with," he said. "And in answer to your question, I believe the Headmaster has asked Remus Lupin to teach this year," he added, sneering slightly. "Penniless vagrant man that he is, he is apparently a fairly competent tutor when he can find employment."

I nodded, remembering Lupin teaching the first time around with slight distaste – the boggart lesson revealed a little more than I wanted about myself – and, with slightly more warmth, recalled the memory of Lupin finding my godfather for me after Lucius kicked me out.

"So why don't you ask him to help us," I asked. "I'm sure he would for the prospect of Weasley cooking, and it might give Ginny's negotiations with her mother more legitimacy than you would," I said, then gulped as I realized what I'd just said. "No offense, of course," I added. My godfather smiled sardonically.

"Obviously," he said. "I suppose I can contact the overly-conciliatory jack-a-napes vagabond."

"Can he be trusted?" Blaise blurted out, obviously wanting to be included. My godfather smirked.

"He's Dumbledore's man through and through," he said. "So he's not likely to sell your little homework club out to Death Eaters, if that's what you're asking." Blaise shook his head.

"I'm more worried about the Ministry," he admitted. Snape grinned, predatorially.

"I'm afraid the competence and usefulness of the Ministry of Magic is one more place where certain itinerant tutors and I agree completely, few and far between as those instances are," he said.

* * *

"No, Weasley, you need to twist the wand like this," my godfather snapped, moving Ron Weasley's arm. "You have the incantation down for  _expelliarmus_ , but your wand movement is going to betray you in the long term, especially when you attempt it nonverbally in your N.E.W.T. classes," he added, sneering. "Go! Practice it another twenty times, and get it down or I'll switch your dueling from Granger to Davis," he said, motioning to where Tracey Davis had enthusiastically blown up a training dummy with a Reductor curse. Weasley paled and started concentrating, while my Godfather stalked over to me.

"How did I ever let you dunderheads talk me into teaching Gryffindors as well?" he asked, throwing his hands up in the air. A well-natured chuckle came from behind me.

"Presumably because Molly threatened to appeal to Dumbledore if you didn't include Ronald, Severus," Lupin said, correcting Daphne Greengrass' wand movement far more gently. "And it's good practice, since if you get the job next year, you'll have to teach all four houses," he admonished to my godfather's grumbling.

"You're not staying more than the year, Professor Lupin?" Granger asked. He shook his head sadly.

"My contract is only for a year, Hermione" he said. "Apparently there's a curse on the position. After several of his teachers dying, the headmaster is not taking any chances trying to sign me on any longer," he added ruefully. "Now, why don't you go over and spar with Draco so he doesn't evesdrop any more today." I grinned; it wasn't as if I were trying to be subtle.

"Formal dueling rules, or just go?" I asked. Snape scowled.

"Are you attempting to learn formal dueling, or how to defend yourself?" he asked. "Just go, obviously. Last one standing wins. Try to avoid killing each other on the Weasley's lawn," he added as an afterthought. I smirked, though it left my face almost immediately as Granger yelled " _diffindo!_ " and a spell whistled past my cheek.

" _Serpensortia!_ " I bellowed, summoning a large constrictor snake. I didn't want Granger killed, after all, but getting multiple targets in front of me on the battlefield is a time-honored way of not getting cut by a thirteen-year-old girl. " _Rictumsempra! Serpensortia!_ " I missed with the tickling jinx, unfortunately, giving my Potions partner a chance to launch a series of cutting hexes at one of the two serpents now flanking her. The other hissed, striking at her leg, which quickly moved out of the way.

"Can't dodge forever," I said, lining up a shot with a disarming charm.

"Didn't plan on it," she said. " _Confundus!_ " she added, and I ducked – but it wasn't aimed at me. She charged toward me, and suddenly my second snake was between us, striking out at anything that moved.

"Excellent, Hermione!" Lupin cheered. "Flitwick would be proud!" I scowled, blasting a small crater in the sod to launch me away from my sudden liability. I should have thought of it – if Granger could Confound a snake in combat, a Death Eater – or an older Slytherin – could certainly  _imperio_ anything I conjured. I launched around to face her, the snake between us, hissing angrily in its confusion.

" _Incendio!_ "I smirked, reducing the conjured creature to ash. Then my wand went flying out of my hand.

"Finally got it right," Ron Weasley said, smirking. Then his face fell as his own wand flew behind him. I turned to see Ginny behind me, holding my wand in her hand and her own leveled at her brother. "Oi! Little traitor!" Weasley complained.

"Two on two's fair," Ginny said, then her face fell. "Oh bugger, duck!" I did, and felt a bludgeoning hex go by. I turned the duck into a somersault, rolling out of it to grab my wand from Ginny and turning with a disarming spell of my own as Granger returned Weasley's wand to him. I missed, and the two of us broke apart, circling the Gryffindors as Granger put up a shield charm.

"Give it up, Granger," I called. "You and I are matched, and Weasley can't hope to compete with us," I added. Not entirely true, as I was more than a match for third-year Granger in a real fight, but since we were staying non-lethal, it was close enough. "Oh, and  _incarcerous_ ," I lazed, wrapping her shield charm in steel cable and causing the spell to flicker with light, beginning to overload it.

"He's got a year on Ginny, Draco," Granger called back. "And he disarmed you!" That was true, of course, but only because I hadn't seen him coming.

"Anyone can do that with surprise," Blaise said, pulling up on the other side of the Gryffindors along with Tracey and Daphne. "And you're surrounded and outnumbered, by the way."

" _Stupefy!_ " two voices called, and Tracey and Daphne dropped. "Now who's outnumbered?" Fred – or possibly George – Weasley called from where the twins were leaning against a tree, watching the mock fight. "Urk!" the other one contributed, as ropes conjured from thin air wrapped themselves around the twins and the tree, immobilizing them. Seamus dropped from the branches.

"Still you guys," he said, twirling his wand as he moved to join Blaise.

"Well," said a pompous voice, as the owner moved with aristocratic grace around the outside of the circle. "A gentleman would step in to make this fair," Percy Weasley said. "And as the Head Boy must always be a gentleman, I suppose he must then step in." His full-of-himself smile vanished to a look of grim business. " _Incendiaros!_ " he called, and a ring of fire surrounded the circle.

"That's not good," I observed. " _Glacius!_ " I called back, knowing the rules had changed with the seventh-year joining the fray. Blaise and Seamus looked at me incredulously as my conjured ice met the Head Boy's flame. With grim determination, I kept the chilly wall between the three of us and the incoming fire while my companions recovered their wits. "Any time now," I gritted out between my teeth.

" _Aguamenti!_ " Blaise called out, driving back one side.

" _Aguamenti!_ " Seamus echoed, driving back the other. When the two parts met over Percy, there was an explosion of water, drenching the former Prefect to general cheering.

" _Stupefy!_ " two voices called out, the spell's limited wand motions making it easy enough for both Granger and the second-youngest Weasley to pick up without further instruction. I suspected, as Blaise and Seamus dropped beside me, that was why the twins had used it.

"Forgot about us," Ron Weasley said, smugly, before a stunner to the back of the head dropped him, his smirk frozen on his face.

"Forgot about  _me_ ," Ginny said from behind him, dodging Granger's  _petrificus totalus_  with ease. I figured now was a good enough time to join back, banishing the conjured ice toward Granger and dropping her to the floor. Ginny kicked her wand away from her, and I walked toward my partner in crime, raising my wand in salute. She matched it, then –

" _Expelliarmus!_ " she cried, and my wand went flying again. " _Petrificus totalus!_ " she added for good measure, and as I was falling to the ground, the youngest of our little band smiled. "Snape said 'last one standing,' " she gloated, and bowed to my godfather elaborately, earning a sardonic little clap from the Potions master as he released the rest of us from our respective enchantments.

Lupin joined him in the task, even casting a drying charm on Percy.

"Breaking rules now, Weasley?" my godfather asked the Head Boy. Percy met his eyes firmly.

"Ginny says He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is coming back," he said, matter-of-fact. "He killed my Penelope. I don't intend to stand on the sidelines and let him kill my family too." Snape raised an eyebrow at the ambitious Gryffindor.

"And the Ministry?" he asked. "Professor McGonagall tells me you plan to work there next year, if your N.E.W.T.s are up to the same level as your O.W.L.s." Percy looked taken aback for a moment, as if confused as to why the dour Potions Master would know what his plans are after Hogwarts, but his face quickly shifted back into resolve.

"Bugger the Ministry," Percy Weasley said, and my respect for him went up exponentially. The twins were, of course, quick to join in.

"Yeah!" Fred – or George – agreed.

"Bugger the Ministry!" the other cheered. Lupin cleared his throat.

"While I tend to agree, and applaud your dedication to family," he said, "I would caution that printing that on a tee shirt, as I'm sure the two of you are off to do, would be somewhat unwise at this juncture." The twins deflated.

"Aww," they whinged simultaneously.

* * *

The summer wound on, and we covered not only the first- and second-year curriculum, bringing us up to speed from Lockhart, but also practiced aiming drills and, surprisingly, the basics of Muggle hand-to-hand combat. Granger had, apparently, begun some form of self-defense course, and after she threw Weasley in a duel  _after_  being disarmed, we all clamored for her to show us how.

Eventually, our lessons expanded. A month into the summer, Lovegood wandered into the Burrow from Salazar knows where, and by the next lesson, Longbottom had joined the petite Ravenclaw, along with the twins' friend Lee Jordan.

"Look, Severus," I heard Arthur Weasley telling my godfather one night as we all sat down to one of Molly Weasley's famous picnic dinners. "It's not that I'm against my children learning to defend themselves, and obviously we're glad to hear the twins, Ron and Ginny won't be completely hopeless on their O.W.L.s since you and Remus began teaching them," he said, and my godfather inclined his head in thanks. "But if this gets any bigger, I won't be able to hide it from the Ministry any more. I'm having trouble talking about my home life at work as it is – Dirk Cresswell over in the Goblin Liaison Office seems to think Molly's abusing me, since I keep refusing to answer simple pleasantries. Apparently I'm some sort of henpecked husband." My godfather snorted, and I had neither the heart nor the plausible excuse to tell Mr. Weasley that's how most people saw him, especially if they'd never actually observed the Weasley dynamic for more than a few moments.

I admit, those first few weeks around the Weasleys were awkward at best. I'd spent something like nineteen years learning to, if not hate, at least look down on their family for being poor. In the last few, I'd gained a grudging respect for them – seeing a fifty-year-old housewife take down the most feared Dark witch of at least the last hundred years will do that whether one wants it or not – but I certainly never imagined I'd be sitting down with Ginny and Percy for fried chicken in the backyard of the Burrow.

I knew Mr. Weasley's pride would never let him complain about the strain our group likely put on his food budget, but I doubted he or Mrs. Weasley would mind if we happened to show up bearing side dishes or raw materials. We managed to sneak them in surreptitiously until Seamus showed up one day with a whole turkey, with predictable, explosive results. Mrs. Weasley's temper and pride were legendary; combined with Seamus' remarkable proclivity for pyrotechnics, an outburst was inevitable. But Lupin was able to calm her down with the power of logical argument – since we were ten more mouths to feed on a regular basis, it was only right that we brought something to offset our appetites. After that, an atmosphere of potluck prevailed – even my godfather found himself badgered into bringing some meatloaf, after Tracey and Blaise got through with him.

But Mr. Weasley's concern about legal matters was harder to deal with – for one thing, it had the issue of being born in fact, rather than in pride. Still, half of our group were Slytherins. Even if I couldn't just wave money at it until it went away anymore, we still had our cunning – and our contacts. Daphne spoke with her father, who sat on the Wizengamot, and Blaise with his mother, who donated a substantial sum of money to the Retired Aurors' Fund each year, and by the following lesson, we were legally covered by a summer teaching contract to use magic within the property boundaries of the Burrow. Mr. Weasley had no idea how it happened, missing Daphne and Blaise's shared look of satisfaction.

We almost hit a snag one afternoon, however. Granger, ever ridiculously eager to learn more, brought up the subject of potions with our instructors.

"Well, wouldn't some of the more common healing potions be useful in defending ourselves?" she asked. "Not to mention Exploding or Fulminating potions," she added, clearly having delved at least as deep as I had in  _Advanced Potion-Making_. Snape shrugged.

"My lab is not large enough for this whole group," he said. "And quite frankly, I wouldn't allow Longbottom in it regardless," he added, before remembering he was supposed to be getting on the boy's good side to gain access to the basilisk corpse. "Meaning no house bias, Longbottom," he said to general surprise. "I don't intend to let Finnegan into my lab either." That brought a laugh, even from the much-maligned Irishman and the self-esteem challenged Gryffindor.

"You've seen me in the lab, Professor," Granger said, completely immodestly. "Have I ever melted or blown up a cauldron without someone else's, ahem, help?" she boasted. I felt fairly guilty; in the first time 'round, I'd been one of the so-called 'helpers.' Now, I suspected Crabbe and Goyle were to blame. My godfather nodded his agreement.

"Granger, I can teach, if she can admit that she does not, in fact, know everything already," he said. "Draco, you as well," he added. "Miss Weasley, you seem to be less of a menace than most of your family in the lab. You may join us as well, as may your eldest present brother," he added. Percy wasn't with us at this point, visiting with his father at the Ministry. Now that we were all above-board, his "Bugger the Ministry" didn't seem as applicable – but I hoped he'd keep that attitude in a few years, if Fudge couldn't be deposed before then.

Looking over the rest of us, my Godfather's voice fell on Fred and George. They smiled in what I suspect they imagined were winning, jaunty grins.

"No," my godfather said, without even letting them ask the question. "Not now, not ever." Their faces fell. Lupin clapped them on the shoulder.

"Don't worry, boys," he said. "I have no doubt that we'll find something to learn here while the rest are stuck in the lab." The twins grinned, and I fought a smile. Something about Lupin led me to believe he wasn't exactly the stuffy, respectable person he presented himself as, and I worried about the havoc the Terrors of Gryffindor could wreak on the school with the help of an actually-qualified adult.

"Can I join you?" Lovegood said. "I want to learn the Wolfsbane Potion," she added, and the room went silent.

"Luna, that's well past N.E.W.T. level," Granger said, gently. I wasn't going to volunteer anything, though I saw the tight look on my godfather's face and the nearly-stricken look on Lupin's. Lovegood smiled up at her, innocently.

"But what if something happens to Professor Snape?" she said, and I didn't quite follow. "Who will make the Wolfsbane Potion for Professor Lupin then?" Weasley snorted.

"Now what would Professor Lupin need the..." he looked at the professor, who's face was ashen. "Wolfsbane Potion for?" he finished lamely. "Professor?"

"I'll just leave, then," he said quietly. "I'll let Dumbledore know I can't teach this year," he added, heading toward the door. He was stopped by Molly Weasley, Granger, and, surprisingly, my Godfather.

"Don't be ridiculous, Lupin," he said. "Where else is the Headmaster going to find someone half-way qualified to teach Defense at this late stage?" Lupin glared at him.

"You can teach it," he said flatly. My godfather snorted, conceding the point.

"Potions, then. I don't know another available Potions master," he said. Lupin shook his head.

"Call Slughorn out of retirement," he said firmly and sadly. "No one's going to want a – well, one of my kind teaching their kids." He glared at my godfather. "Honestly, Severus, I would have thought you'd be glad to see me go." My godfather grimaced.

"I..." he said, then closed his eyes, as if whatever he was going to say was incredibly painful. "What happened that night was not your fault, Lupin," he said, and I was sure only the adults and myself could hear it. "Black was entirely to blame, budding sociopath that he was." Here, he spat at the floor. "Black and my own foolishness," he amended. Lupin looked shocked, but fought it back as a mild sneer crossed my godfather's face. "That doesn't mean I've forgiven you for the rest of your so-called Marauders' shenanigans where I am concerned," he said, and Lupin had the courtesy to bow his head in acknowledgement, "but I refuse to blame you for being a werewolf." Lupin smiled that thin little smile.

"That's uncommonly decent of you, Severus," he said, "and I'm certain we could work past our other issues. However," he added, "One man's acknowledgement of that fact does not mean the rest of the world will be so reasonable." His lips turned up ruefully. "I can think of at least one senior undersecretary to the Minister who would be calling for my hide nailed to her office door if she found out what I was," Lupin said. Mrs. Weasley put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"Don't be ridiculous, Remus," she said. "Arthur's told me all about that horrible woman. Who's going to tell her? We're certainly not," she vowed, and her quick look around the room challenged anyone to disagree. Surprisingly, Daphne spoke up.

"My father has abstained from every single Wizengamot bill regulating werewolf activity since he took his seat," she said. "I have to admit, finding out Professor Lupin is a werewolf is likely to make him stop doing that." Lupin hung his head, mouthing 'I told you so' to my godfather and the Weasleys, until Daphne continued. "But since he can't stand that Umbridge toad – please, don't assume I don't know who you're talking about – he's more likely to come down against her. Especially if he meets you," she added. She gestured to the rest of us, mirroring Mrs. Weasley's dare to disagree.

"Me ma always said not to judge," Seamus said. "'Supposed to keep me out of trouble, I think." He paused. "Professor Snape's going to be brewing him Wolfsbane, yeah?" My godfather nodded. "And he's going to be locked up during the full moon?" he asked, and Lupin nodded slowly. "Then I doubt me ma will have much of a problem with it," he confirmed. "She's a reasonable lady, really, unless you say something 'bout her cooking."

"What Seamus said," Tracey agreed.

"No doubt you've already gleaned this from our mother's comments," Ron Weasley said, imitating Percy in his absence, "But the Weasleys are behind you one hundred percent." He grinned that irritating grin of his.

"Here, here," Ginny agreed.

"Bugger the Ministry!" the twins chorused gleefully. Ruddy little anarchists, but I couldn't help but be amused by them, Gryffindors though they were.

"If the  _Prophet_  makes trouble for you, Daddy will make sure your side is supported in the press," Lovegood said, and Longbottom nodded next to her. "And I'm sure, once you've started teaching, the whole of Ravenclaw will be behind you," she added. "Some of us want to actually pass our O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s."

"Here, here," Granger cheered, grimly enthusiastic, obviously forming some half-arsed scheme for an activist society with an unfortunate acronym. Oh, bugger, I thought. Werewolf starts with a W. I might end up being recruited into SPEW or something like this. Or HURL, if she used Lupin's initials. Or something.

"Like I'm going to disagree with the rest of my house when they're right," Longbottom said, somewhat more confidently than the third-year Neville Longbottom I'd tormented the first time around. "And they are right, you know," he said. "Can't let fear get to you. Weren't you a Gryffindor?" he asked Lupin, who nodded.

"I could be the only dissenting voice if I chose," Blaise said, "but even if I didn't have some respect for Professor Lupin personally, I certainly agree with Granger and Lovegood. I'm not telling anyone. And my mother's fairly good at keeping secrets herself, should you want additional political backing."

"See?" I said. "Even Blaise is behind you." Lupin looked at me oddly just then, as if he was seeing something that confused him. "And I owe you several for dinner those nights," I added, buffing my fingernails on my robes, wishing I had glasses to clean. "Your secret's safe with me."

"I'm overwhelmed," Lupin said, and as Salazar is my witness, I think I saw a tear forming at the corner of his amber eyes. "Of course I'll stay. Just..." he trailed off, before collecting himself. "I sincerely doubt I'll be able to keep the secret the whole year," he said. "Someone is bound to pick up on it, if Luna did." Snape grimaced.

"I highly doubt that, Lupin," he said, "Lovegood tends to look at things sideways, drawing truth and highly-illogical, but often correct, conclusions from leaps of logic that baffle anyone thinking in a half-way conventional manner." His grimace stayed on his face, as if the very act of paying a half-backhanded compliment to any student was distasteful. Lovegood, of course, beamed, and I shook my head in amusement.

"Then it's settled," Mrs. Weasley said. "Percy, Ginny, Hermione, Luna and Draco will join Severus for Potions for the second half of lessons. The rest will join Remus." She paused, as if remembering something. "Oh, and Harry is supposed to be joining us next week," she said. "I assume you'll want him to go with Remus?" she asked my godfather. He was about to agree wholeheartedly when I gave him a knowing glare as a reminder of his basilisk issue, and he deflated.

"I don't think Potter's up to the more advanced potions," he said. "But I am willing to take him for a few of the more basic healing potions." Lupin nodded.

"Excellent," he said. "And while you're teaching them to blow stuff up and heal the damage," he said, a glint of mischief in his eye, "I'll be seeing whether or not McGonagall has lost her touch. Transfiguration," he announced. "Make sure you bring your familiars next week."

Naturally, that was when everything went wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More rising action. I'm kind of going slowly here, I realize, but such is the nature of the beast. In any event, yes, Harry still blows up Aunt Marge and storms off, but as the Weasleys spent the summer at home instead of going to Egypt due to Ginny's volunteering their house for instruction, Fudge doesn't worry about him and insist he stay at the Leaky Cauldron for the rest of summer. The Weasleys, then, will be off to pick him up after some off-screen hijinks. As for the continuing question of Draco being a little, well, friendlier than canon, a reminder: Canon already happened to him. He was already broken down from that, then proceeded to get called out on his actions by a hat, shat his pants facing Voldemort, was disowned by his family and spent a summer being relatively poor, got petrified, and has been exposed to a month or so of Molly Weasley's cooking – which may qualify as a mood-altering substance if canon is to be believed. We call this phenomenon "character growth." As for Snape's generally-more-positive outlook on life, having a kid to care for has prevented him from wallowing in his own self-loathing as much as usual. He's still a bitter young man and a snarky git, but Draco's growth is rubbing off on him a bit, and Lupin was always trying to be conciliatory in canon. Finally, one of my reviewers (in Last Second Chance) has asked whether Snape might be a time-traveller as well. The answer is no. Snape has many secrets – of his own and of Draco's – but that is not one of them. Draco is the only one who came back.


	28. Homorphous Charm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the much-heralded "all going to pot" actually happens, truths are revealed, and Severus Snape is forced to make nice with a childhood menace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "136. Shouting “Let’s do the village! Let’s do the whole fucking village!” while out on a mission is bad."  
> \- 213 Things Skippy Is No Longer Allowed To Do in the U.S. Army

The first day of Potions went about as expected. After a morning of accuracy drills at the Burrow, Granger, Lovegood, Ginny, Percy, my Godfather and I flooed back to Spinner's End with our Potions kit. Surprisingly, my godfather was much more patient with the five of us than usual, something that everyone but Percy seemed to find odd. I wondered, given that, if this was how he treated his N.E.W.T. students, then decided it must be as I'd never had N.E.W.T. classes with him.

"Granger, you're going to lose that unblemished cauldron record if you stir any more," he said, looking at her Polyjuice potion. "And it has to simmer for a month after this, so you're done for the day," he added. "We'll all floo back here to check it a week after school begins, and I expect it to be perfect." He looked over at my cauldron, where I was mixing a Burnmending Draught out of  _Advanced Potion-Making._ Granger and I were obviously ahead of Ginny and Lovegood, though Percy was still a bit ahead of us, having completed a year of N.E.W.T. studies already.

"Not bad, Draco," he complimented. "You might consider adding additional extract of aloe vera, however," he criticized drily, "lest your potion heal the burns without taking away the pain." I nodded, following his advice. Admittedly, had I bothered to read his scribbled notes, I'd probably have done that already, but it was nice to have the attention.

"More capsacin powder, Lovegood," he said. "And don't skimp on the charcoal, either," he added, his expression approving as her potion turned from a light grey to a dark black, with an orange glow. "Yes, that's it," he said. "You as well, Weasley," he told Ginny, who was working on the same Exploding Potion. "Working with volatile ingredients is excellent practice for your O.W.L.s," he said, "and an absolute must if you're going to brew the Wolfsbane potion correctly." He pointed over to Percy, who was sweating over the difficult brew.

"You'll notice that even a hard-working N.E.W.T. student has some trouble with the Wolfsbane," my godfather said, "and he has had practice that a couple of second-years like yourselves cannot yet imagine." He glared over at Ginny's brother. "Be careful how you cut the monkshood, Weasley," he said. "Poor attention to detail will result in the potion failing to control the werewolf's beast or, more permanently, death to the unfortunate creature." Percy nodded slightly, all attention on the potion in front of him.

I have to admit, it was fun to be back in the lab. After missing a year of practice, I was sure Granger would have caught up to me, but to my surprise I was still fairly competitive in our little bet – and it was heartening to know I could still be better at something – Slytherin pride on the line and all that.

"Done," I said, and started gathering ingredients for an Exploding potion of my own. Granger nodded, and began to do the same.

"We should be able to finish these before we call it quits for the day," she said. "Challenge?" I grinned.

"Accepted," I said, and we began to brew. I noticed, as I carefully measured saltpeter and sulfer to match the small batch we were making. I considered, briefly, adding the oxidized iron and other ingredients which would make a Fulminating potion instead, but I didn't know if my godfather had enough aluminum powder, and anyway, it had a longer brewing time.

I glanced at Granger, and noticed the potion-brewing had made even more of a mess of her hair than usual. Even my short tufts felt greasy, and Lovegood and the Weasleys weren't any better off. My godfather, of course, looked as comfortable as usual despite the oils in his hair and on his skin, and I recalled that he didn't particularly care for his appearance during brewing. I wished I could convince him to tie his hair back or something, as Ginny and Lovegood had started doing. Granger's hair, of course, was as hopeless as usual.

Lily, perched on my godfather's shoulder, hooted at us, and I remembered just in time to add the charcoal. Checking my notes, I added the tiniest amount of dyed flour, and my potion turned a glowing green instead of orange. I noticed, however, that Granger had done the same – hers, understandably, turning a dark Gryffindor red.

"Bah. I need to learn how to do that," Ginny said, looking over at ours. "The green, of course," she said. Lovegood nodded.

"I wouldn't mind giving it a nice Ravenclaw blue," she said. "But can you make it more colorful overall?" My godfather came over.

"Not without destabilizing the potion," he said. "But there are other options for making colorful lights using this potion as a base," he added smoothly. "I won't be teaching them just at present, however," he said, moving over to me and Granger. "These are done," he proclaimed. "And well. Both on about the same level," he said, to Granger's evident surprise. "My compliments, Draco, Granger." He clapped his hands together once, getting our attention.

"Now that Weasley is done with the wolfsbane for the day, I believe that will end our lessons," he said. "You may leave your potions equipment here," he added, to my surprise. "There is an empty cabinet just there. Five minutes for clean-up, and then we'll floo to the Burrow." His stomach growled, and I hid a smile as I realized he'd grown accustomed to Mrs. Weasley's cooking.

* * *

We entered the sitting room of the Burrow to a scene of mildly controlled chaos. Furniture seemed to have been thrown everywhere, and we took our wands out immediately. Mrs. Weasley was unconscious on the floor, though we could see her still breathing, and Lupin had his wand out, pointing it straight between the eyes of a balding, overweight man in the center of the room. Unfortunately, the man had Ron Weasley's wand pointed at Ron Weasley's head, and it looked as if the standoff had been going on for some time.

"Put the wand down, Remus!" the man whined. "I swear, I don't want to hurt the boy – he's been a good owner – but I will if you don't put it down!" I could see the Dark Mark on his arms, what with his ragged clothing, but it took me a minute to place him. Lupin did it for me.

"The moment you do, I'll kill you, Peter," he snarled, and I could feel the wolf in the room. "For James and Lily, if for nothing else. You can't get away." Wormtail, then, I realized. Peter Pettigrew. I had absolutely no idea why he was here, of course. Maybe to kill Potter?

"Professor Lupin, no," Potter said, though his face was darker than I'd ever seen it. "Not until the Ministry has a chance to interrogate him." At that moment, however, a stunner hit the man in the back. In the confusion, Percy had managed to sneak around him. Weasley reclaimed his wand as Lupin added an  _incarcerous_  and Longbottom a  _petrificus totalus_ to the spells binding the little Death Eater.

"What is going on?" my godfather asked, clearly trying to keep his voice level. "And  _rennervate,_ " he added, waking Mrs. Weasley. "Who is this Death Eater? And why is he here?" Weasley looked up at him.

"You didn't know him?" he said, bitter. "I thought you knew all the Death Eaters." My godfather sneered at him.

"Obviously, not all of us knew everyone else," he spat. "Otherwise no one would have escaped Azkaban after Karkaroff's little name-naming." He turned to glare at Lupin. "So I reiterate. Who. Is. That?" Lupin's glare, though no less fierce than my godfather's, was aimed at the unconscious man on the floor.

"Peter Pettigrew," he said. My godfather went absolutely still.

"I thought Black killed him," he said. "After he betrayed Lily. And Potter, I suppose," he added, clearly as an afterthought. I was going to have to get that story, apparently. Lupin nodded, never taking his eyes – or his wand – from the man on the floor.

"So did I," he said. "But obviously I was wrong." Longbottom crawled out from behind the couch, where he and the twins had clearly taken cover.

"Could it be someone under Polyjuice?" he asked. My godfather shook his head.

"Granger, field that question," he said. "You've been working with the stuff all day." She nodded, clearly glad for an opportunity to know everything, since she was clearly as out of her depth as the rest of us were otherwise.

"Polyjuice potion requires the hair from a living person," she recited. "It does not work on the dead." Lupin nodded. "Which means," she started, and he finished.

"Even if this is someone under Polyjuice potion, Peter is still alive out there. Plus," he added, kicking Pettigrew's left arm to fully expose the Dark Mark, "I have my doubts as to whether the potion could fake the Dark Mark. Severus? You're the expert here twice over," he conceded. My godfather shook his head.

"No," he said. "The mark is the product of the Protean Charm, and cannot be duplicated by Polyjuice." His voice was flat, as if every word he said was difficult, and I noticed his fingers kept twitching toward his own wand. "Whoever that is, Pettigrew or not, it is a Death Eater." He turned to Mrs. Weasley. "Call the Auror Office. Better yet," he said, thinking better of it, "Call your husband. Tell him to bring Amelia Bones directly." Mrs. Weasley nodded, moving past us toward the floo.

* * *

"Well," Madame Bones said, "Under the circumstances I want him interrogated before we attempt to transport him." Lupin nodded, and my godfather scowled. "It won't hold up in court, of course, but it will give us something to charge him with, and we can always administer Veritaserum to him again in front of the full Wizengamot."

I sat at the table with the other kids, talking quietly. More than an hour had passed, so we were, by then, fairly certain our captive was not, in fact, under the Polyjuice potion. When I saw Lupin send my godfather back to Spinner's End for Veritaserum, I spoke up.

"Longbottom, can you get your grandmother here?" I asked. He nodded. "Do it, please," I said. He nodded, looking across to where Blaise and Potter still had wands on the captive Pettigrew. "Daphne, your father, if you can," I added, and she left for the floo. "Lovegood?" I looked at the dreamy-eyed Ravenclaw.

"Yes, Draco Not-Really-Malfoy?" she asked, and I grimaced a bit.

"Just Draco," I said. "Can you get your father here before they get back?" She considered the question.

"I suppose I could, Just Draco, but how will you differentiate between Lovegoods?" I rolled my eyes.

"I can call you Luna," I deadpanned. "It's been known to happen." She smiled at me.

"But I haven't even given you a challenge in Quidditch yet," she said. "Isn't that the criterion for a first-name basis with you, Just Draco?" My eyes reached new heights of rolling, and I considered attempting the world-famous Snape Family Facepalm, but decided against it. After all, I wasn't really a Snape, and my godfather probably had the facepalm protected under the Berne convention, for all the good that did.

"Just get your father, Luna. Tell him to bring a quill." She smiled, and started to skip out the door.

"I'll go with her," Ginny said. "We can get there faster on a broom, and Mr. Lovegood can side-along us back here." I nodded, wishing I had mine with me instead of the clunky old things in the Weasley closet, but suddenly felt ashamed to be thinking that.

"Madame Bones?" I asked, and she looked up.

"Yes, Mr. Malfoy?" she asked. I grimaced.

"Please, just Draco," I said. "I'm under cease-and-desist orders to find a new last name, after all." I tried for a smile, given the circumstances. "Wouldn't it be better to have a couple Aurors along?" She nodded.

"I have a few I can trust for something like this," she said. "But most of them are on assignment." I nodded, as if considering the problem.

"What about Kingsley Shacklebolt and John Dawlish?" I asked, and grinned cheekily at her confused look. "I heard they investigated my father's house, and wanted to thank them in person," I added, and she relaxed, apparently satisfied that my ulterior motive was overall harmless.

"Certainly," she agreed. "Dawlish is out of town, but Shacklebolt should be available." She, too, went to the floo, and I resolved to find a way to replenish the Weasley's limited supply of floo powder before I returned to Hogwarts.

"Let me–" Pettigrew started.

" _Stupefy_!" Potter and Blaise said, knocking him out again with twin looks of satisfaction. Blaise had, apparently, gotten a bit vicious over the year I'd been gone.

"Well done, Potter," Blaise complimented.

"Thank you, Zabini," Potter said. "You as well."

In short order, Longbottom and Daphne arrived with their respective family members, as did Madame Bones with Shacklebolt and a pink-haired woman in trainee robes that I almost recognized as my cousin, Nymphadora Tonks. I'd never actually spoken to the woman, of course, seeing as she was blasted off the Black family tree and my mother only mentioned her sister and her daughter in passing, but there was enough Black in her heart-shaped face and observant eyes for me to recognize her. As my godfather stepped out of the floo with a carefully-padded crate of Veritaserum, Madame Bones took over.

"I'm not sure how you got two members of the Wizengamot here," she said, "but I suppose this interrogation may actually count as evidence. Assuming you and Augusta are willing to stand witness, Jonathan?" she asked Daphne's father, who nodded.

"Of course," he said. "Always glad to see justice done," he added, looking intently at Pettigrew's Dark Mark.

"As am I, of course," Augusta Longbottom said, glaring at Pettigrew. "Assuming there is a member of the press here as an observer, for transparency." Madame Bones' shoulders dropped.

"I'd forgotten about that part momentarily," she admitted. "I hadn't expected to be able to use this for anything but probable cause." At that moment, Ginny, Luna and an older gentleman dressed in the oddest robes I'd ever seen walked through the front door.

"I was told you needed a journalistic observer?" he asked. "Xenophilius Lovegood, editor of the  _Quibbler_ , at your service," he added, offering his hand for Madame Bones to shake, surprised. "I assume you have a qualified Potions Master to administer the Veritaserum?" My godfather raised an eyebrow.

"Present," he said. Lovegood nodded.

"And I see we have two members of the Auror Office present, as required by Ministry regulation," he said, nodding at Shacklebolt and Tonks and flatly ignoring her trainee robes. "Court scribe?" he asked, looking at Madame Bones, who shrugged.

"We could wait until Arthur gets back," she said uncertainly. Percy cleared his throat self-importantly.

"According to Ministry regulations, the presiding officer – that would be you, Madame Bones – can appoint any presently-employed member of the Ministry of Magic not attached to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement as court scribe," he said. "I'm an intern," he clarified for our understanding. "Will that do?" She nodded, and Lovegood grinned.

"Well, then!" he said. "It looks like we're all legal. Start the record, Mr. Weasley," he said, and produced a roll of parchment and quill of his own.

"Collection of evidence in preparation for the trial of one Peter Pettigrew," Madame Bones said, as Percy scratched down the record. "Witness for the Prosecution, Amelia Susan Bones. Court Scribe, Percival Ignatius Weasley. Representatives for the Auror Office, Kingsley Shacklebolt and Nymphadora Tonks." She paused, consulting a large book that I expected had a number of relevant legal decisions enchanted into it. I wasn't wrong.

"In accordance with the Defense of the Minstry Act of 1981, Peter Pettigrew, as an accused Death Eater, is not entitled to legal counsel during this stage, though he remains entitled to counsel during his eventual trial. To ensure his rights, however, in accordance with the Defense of Our Populace Act of 1982, a nonpartisan journalistic observer is required. Serving in that capacity is Xenophilius Lovegood, editor of the  _Quibbler_. Additionally, as this interrogation will include the use of Veritaserum, a liscenced Potions Master in good standing is required; that role will be filled by Severus Snape, Potions Master at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry." She smiled. "Representing the Wizengamot are Jonathan Greengrass and Augusta Longbottom. Are we ready to proceed?" she asked.

"Yes," they all said.

"Shacklebolt, wake him up, please," Madame Bones said.

" _Rennervate._ " As the Auror woke Pettigrew, my godfather administered three drops of Veritaserum to his tongue before nodding to Madame Bones.

"Verbally, for the record please, Professor Snape," Percy chided, clearly taking to the role immediately. My godfather scowled.

"The Veritaserum has been administered, Madame Bones," he said. "You may proceed with your questions; he cannot help but answer them honestly." She nodded.

"For the record, what is your name?" she asked.

"Peter Pettigrew," he answered, tonelessly.

"Peter Pettigrew. You are charged with being a member of the criminal organization known as the Death Eaters, and with being an unregistered animagus. Further charges may be leveled against you as they come out under questioning. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Are you a Death Eater?"

"Yes."

"Why did you fake your own death?"

"Because Sirius Black was trying to kill me."

"Why was Sirius Black attempting to kill you?"

"Because I gave the location of Lily and James Potter, and their son, to the Dark Lord," he said.

"WHAT!" My godfather bellowed. " _Cruc_ –"

" _Stupefy!_ " Potter yelled. " _Rennervate,_ " he added, waking my godfather up. "Sorry, Professor," he said, not looking a bit sorry. "Can't have you being hauled off to Azkaban and all that." Madame Bones raised an eyebrow at him.

"Professor Snape, I need you to control yourself," she said, with a look on her face that clearly read 'I need to find out what that's all about.' "And Mr. Weasley, Mr. Lovegood, would you agree to strike that from the record?" Weasley nodded, while Lovegood looked a bit put out.

"Oh, fine," he said a moment later. "But I want an interview later," he added. Madame Bones rolled her eyes before turning back to Pettigrew.

"Others have testified that Sirius Black was the Secret-Keeper for the Potters," she said. "How did you overcome the Fidelius Charm?"

"I was the Secret-Keeper," Pettigrew said. "Sirius was not," he added, somewhat redundantly. Lupin gasped, and Madame Bones waved him down.

"And did Sirius Black kill those twelve Muggles?" she asked. Pettigrew shook his head.

"No."

"Who did?"

"I did."

"Why?"

"To cover my escape."

"And how did you escape?"

"I am an unregistered animagus; a rat," he said. "I blew up the street, then transformed and hid in the sewers."

"And how have you hid these last twelve years?" Madame Bones asked.

"As a pet rat," Pettigrew said. "I was Percy Weasley's familiar for several years, and have been Ronald Weasley's familiar for the past two."

"WHAT!" Percy bellowed. " _Bombard–_ "

" _Stupefy!_ " Potter yelled again. " _Rennevate,_ " he added, waking Percy. "Seriously, Percy," he admonished. "You don't see Ron – oh, bugger.  _Stupefy!_ " he yelled, at Ron Weasley this time. " _Rennervate,_ " he added, as Shacklebolt chuckled.

"You'd make a half-decent Auror, Potter," he rumbled amusedly. "Make sure you keep up in Potions."

"Mr. Weasley, Mr. Lovegood, please strike the last from the record?" Madame Bones said, clearly ready to challenge my godfather's copyright on the facepalm.

"Yes, ma'am," Percy said sheepishly.

"Agreed," Lovegood said.

"All right," Madame Bones said. "Peter Pettigrew, you are to be charged with twelve counts of murder, three counts of conspiracy to commit murder, two counts of accessory to murder, failure to register as an animagus, and being a member of the terrorist organization known as the Death Eaters. You will be taken to the Ministry of Magic, there to await a solicitor of your choosing and a date for your trial. Do you understand these charges?"

"Yes," Pettigrew said, still under Veritaserum.

"Good. We'll adjourn until then," Madame Bones concluded.

"Record ends," Percy said.

"I concur," Lovegood said.

"Why, Peter?" Lupin asked, anguish written all over his face. Pettigrew, unable to lie, was never the less able to twist his face into grim satisfaction.

"You never took me seriously," he said. "You never gave a shit about little, stupid Peter. James, Sirius, even you, Remus – you all laughed at me. You were always taking me down." His eyes went wild. "WHO'S LAUGHING NOW, MOONY! WHO'S LAUGHING NOW?"

" _Stupefy,_ " Potter said, even more flatly than he'd been when stunning Snape. "Be thankful I don't do more," he added quietly, to the man's unconscious form. "But you're not worth it in the least."

"Well done, Potter," I commented, now that I could talk without interrupting the record. "And you're right," I added.

"Indeed," Madame Bones said. "Oh!" she exclaimed, obviously coming to the same conclusion Lupin was. "And Kingsley, send someone to get Sirius Black out of Azkaban, will you?" Shacklebolt looked up from where he and Tonks were manhandling Pettigrew toward the floo.

"Count on it, Ma'am," he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Daphne's father being named Jonathan Greengrass is not canon, but of the several times one of my favorited fic authors has had to name him, it is my favorite. Thus, we will be using it for this story. And yes, consider my little insight into how the Wizarding Legal System works (or doesn't) to be purely fanon conjecture. Obviously, having little experience with any legal system, much less a British one or a Wizarding one, I've had to pull whatever I can out of my arse.


	29. Interlude II: Wizengamot Courtroom Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the third person gets a chance, and we the readers gain further insight into the workings of the British Wizarding Legal System.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "47. I am not a citizen of 'Texas, and those other, forty-nine, lesser states.'"  
> \- 213 Things Skippy Is No Longer Allowed to Do in the U.S. Army

"This court calls to order the suit by Narcissa Malfoy nee Black against the Ministry of Magic. Mrs. Malfoy, please state for the record why you are here," said Delores Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic.

"Thank you, Undersecretary," Narcissa Malfoy said. "As you're aware, when my husband was arrested, his assets were seized, including our home. I am here to request a small percentage be released to me to cover my living expenses during his incarceration and trial." Umbridge nodded.

"That seems fairly straightforward," she simpered. "And of course, given Mr. Malfoy's longstanding contributions to the Ministry, we all hope to see his innocence proven," she added, attempting to give some support to the woman standing in the center of the courtroom. If one were to judge by the reactions of the assembled Wizengamot, however, they might find that possibility highly unlikely.

"Fat chance," someone coughed, though not loud enough for Umbridge to comment. Narcissa, for her credit, simply smiled weakly.

"My solicitor informs me that a total of, perhaps, five percent of the seized assets may be released?" she said, attempting to sound harmless. Umbridge nodded.

"That is, after all, the rule, and we follow all the rules, don't we?" she simpered further. "Now, I believe your total assets seized come to about sixty thousand galleons, do they not?" she asked. "Let's round it off to the nearest thousand, then, makes the math easier, and... yes?" she asked, looking at Narcissa, who was raising her hand.

"Actually, I took the liberty of having my solicitor draw up a document after assessing the value of all seized property," Narcissa said. "It should be a little more accurate." She handed the scroll to her solicitor, who, biting back a smirk, handed it to Umbridge.

"Thirty-nine million, nine hundred ninety nine thousand, five hundred twelve Galleons?" Umbridge balked. Narcissa smiled sweetly.

"The house has been in our family for generations," she said. "And some of the items seized were quite valuable themselves." Umbridge's eyes nearly left their sockets.

"Those items were illegal!" she exclaimed. "Surely you don't want them back?" Narcissa shook her head.

"Oh, no, Undersecretary. Just monetary compensation for assets seized. You can take the rest, really." She was smiling openly now. "Those are the rules, after all," she said. "And we follow all the rules, don't we?" Umbridge was sputtering.

"Of course, but, thirty-nine million, nine hundred and... and..."

"Oh, just round it off to the nearest thousand," Narcissa said, matching Umbridge's earlier, sickly-sweet tone. "It makes the math easier."

* * *

"Sirius Black, you have been brought to the Ministry to present evidence in your own defense," Madame Bones said. "Finally," she added, under her breath.

"Finally," Black said, completely audibly. "I assume you want me to take Veritaserum?" They'd cleaned him up after Azkaban, while he'd been held in the Ministry cells pending trial. Though he still shook a bit, a week away from the Dementors and three solid meals a day had done him much good, and he looked less like a mass-murderer and more like someone, well, who'd just got out of prison.

"Yes, that is our intention. Will you accept it?" she asked. "I assure you, only a qualified Potions Master will administer it." Black nodded.

"As long as it's not Severus Snape," he said. "Don't trust him not to poison me," he added, cheekily enough, though the humor sort of fell flat as he shuddered again.

"That is quite acceptable," Madame Bones said. "Auror Robards is a qualified Potions Master, and will serve in that fashion." The Wizengamot waited while the powerful truth potion was administered.

"The Veritaserum has been administered successfully, Madame Bones," Gawain Robards said. "You may begin when ready." She nodded.

"Please state your name for the record," she ordered.

"Sirius Orion Black," he said.

"Are you now, or have you ever been, a Death Eater?"

"I am not and have not," he said calmly.

"Did you betray the Potters to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?"

"Never."

"Did you kill twelve Muggles by blowing up a street?"

"I have never killed even a single Muggle, by any means."

"Did you attempt to kill Peter Pettigrew?" she asked.

"I did." A few gasps from here and there in the courtroom.

"Why?"

"Because he betrayed James and Lily to Voldemort." More gasps.

"Have you committed any crimes against the Ministry of Magic since coming of age?" she asked, knowing she was pushing it.

"Objection!" Black's solicitor broke in, waving his finger in the air.

"No, I'm willing to answer," Black said, clearly amused even under Veritaserum. "I'm an illegal animagus," he admitted. "I intend to register immediately, if possible." The courtroom murmured.

"Very well, we shall add that to the charges against you," Madame Bones said. "No further questions, counselor," she said.

"Very well," he said. "Sirius waives his right to further questioning."

"Members of the Wizengamot, on the twelve charges of murder, how do you find the defendant?"

"Cleared of those charges," the Wizengamot chorused, with no abstentions.

"The charge of the murder of Peter Pettigrew has been dropped, as we found Pettigrew alive," she said. "Does the Wizengamot wish to amend that charge to attempted murder?" she asked. Black sighed with relief before they even answered, and Madame Bones guessed that was because the maximum sentence for the charge was 10 years in Azkaban, which he had already served.

"No," they chorused. "I would have done the same," some bold soul shouted out. Black grinned cheekily, and Madame Bones had to bang her gavel for order.

"On the charge of being a member of the terrorist group known as the Death Eaters, how do you find the defendant?"

"Cleared of that charge."

"Very well. On the charge of failure to register as an animagus, how do you find the defendant?"

"Guilty," the Wizengamot said.

"Well, it couldn't be helped," Black snarked from the floor. Madame Bones found herself fighting back a grin.

"Very well," she said. "Sirius Black, you have been found guilty of being an unregistered animagus, and are sentenced to one year in Azkaban prison," she said. "That time has been served," she added, to his obvious relief. "As to the matter of compensation," she said, "I believe you had just entered active service as an Auror?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said, suddenly remembering that this lady would have been his boss if he'd not gone to prison.

"Then I think eleven years of pay at that rate, backdated, should do it?" she said. "In addition, the Ministry will subsidize any medical treatment, mental or otherwise, relating to your extended and unwarranted incarceration. How does that sound?" she asked. Black smiled thinly.

"Hazard pay," he said.

"I beg your pardon?" she said.

"Aurors attached to Azkaban prison receive additional, hazardous duty pay," Black said. "As I was obviously attached to Azkaban," he added sardonically, "I would like back pay commensurate with my duty." She shook her head.

"Fine, fine. See the bursar on your way out. Anything else?"

"Yes," Black said. "I want to be the one to push Pettigrew through the Veil when the time comes." The courtroom went silent.

"I'm afraid Mr. Pettigrew escaped from our cells downstairs nearly twelve hours ago," Madame Bones said. "His guard has been placed on administrative leave pending an investigation," she added, lamely.

"That rat," Black said, clearly biting back curses in front of the Wizengamot and the press. "He'll go after Harry," he warned. "Try to finish the job."

"Don't I know it," Madame Bones sighed. "In any event, Mr. Black, you are free to go. Don't forget to collect your money and stop by the registrar's office on the animagus bit. What do you turn into, anyway?" She asked. "That is, if you don't mind me asking." In a moment, there was a great, black dog standing in the center of the courtroom. Bones laughed. "Entirely appropriate," she said, rubbing her forehead in exhasperation. "Go see your Godson, Mr. Black."

"Woof!" Sirius Black barked.

* * *

"Lucius Malfoy, you have been found guilty of seventy-seven counts of possession of items proscribed by Wizarding Law, all of which have been confiscated," Cornelius Fudge said sadly. "Consequently, your remaining assets have been seized, including your mansion, to pay your fines. You will serve not less than two years in Azkaban Prison as well," he said. "And this is after we considered your many years of service."

"Seventy-seven counts?" he asked, somewhat incredulous.

"It would have been more," Fudge said, authoritatively, "but we decided to count the vault of torture equipment as one item, rather than breaking it down per capita." Lucius nodded.

"Fortunately for you, the charge of Unlawful Possession of a Dementor has been dropped, as both your solicitor and your wife have testified that you are in no way stupid enough to leave one on your property," Fudge said. "This would have carried a minimum sentence of ten years," he added. Lucius gulped. "Do you understand your sentence?"

"I do," Lucius said. "I believe I'm entitled to five percent of my total assets?" Fudge nodded.

"Your wife collected it last week," he confirmed, to Lucius' wide eyes. "Have you anything more to say before you are removed to Azkaban?"

Lucius Malfoy stood mute.

"Take him away," Fudge said, dolefully. It was a shame, he thought, losing a powerful donor, but on the other hand, he had all the money now, and he could be seen to be doing something, always an important thing these days. He was quite glad that whole Sirius Black fiasco had happened under his predecessor; with Madame Bones' quick action to repair the damage, he might actually be able to keep his job if nothing unfortunate happened over the next couple of years.

* * *

"This concludes the trial _in absentia_ of Peter P. Pettigrew," Madame Bones said. "To reiterate, we the Wizengamot find him guilty of all charges. For the murder of twelve Muggles, we sentence him to death by the Veil of Execution, suspended to not less than life in Azkaban prison. For the conspiracy to commit the murders of James, Lily and Harry Potter, we sentence him to death by the Veil of Execution, suspended to not less than life in Azkaban prison. For being a willing member of the terrorist organization known as the Death Eaters, we sentence him to not less than life in Azkaban Prison. For being the accessory to the murders of James and Lily Potter, we sentence him to not less than thirty years in Azkaban prison. For failure to register as an animagus, we sentence him to not less than three years in Azkaban prison. For the crime of breaking out of ministry custody, and for fleeing same, we sentence him to not less than ten years in Azkaban prison. This sentence will be posted in all Wizarding newspapers within Magical Great Britain. We the Wizengamot set a price on the head of Peter Pettigrew of ten thousand galleons, and name him Undesirable Number One." She banged her gavel again. "The Wizengamot's justice be done."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here is our first major deviation from canon. Draco isn't witnessing these events, hence the interlude, but it seems fairly important to include them. Draco's parents are fairly important, in their own ways, to the overall story, so we had to do a bit to show them now. Sirius is, of course, Sirius Business. And Pettigrew is on the run. I wonder where he'll go? I know, and clever readers can probably guess as well.
> 
> "Into every generation a Potter Author is born. She alone will stand with the Hufflepuffs, Gryffindors, Ravenclaws and Slytherins against the Death Eaters, Inferi and the Forces of Darkness. She is J.K. Rowling."


	30. Third Time's the Charm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our intrepid "hero" gets back to Hogwarts, Harry Potter gets his own damn godfather, and nobody is particularly fond of the Dementors of Azkaban.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "15. Not allowed to train adopted stray dogs to 'Sic Brass!'"  
> \- 213 Things Skippy is No Longer Allowed to Do in the U.S. Army

They say the third time's the charm. I haven't tried it with the time-traveling thing, and don't intend to, but the third year trip on the Hogwarts Express seemed to be a lot more fun after a summer of making friends and allies. If I had a complaint – and I inevitably did – it would be that the compartments were too small to fit all of us, even just the Slytherins, comfortably. Especially as we were all getting, so to speak, a little bit bigger.

So we left the Gryffindors to themselves, and crammed Blaise, Ginny, Daphne, Tracey and I, along with Luna, into a compartment toward the end of the car. We passed Lupin walking down the train as well, a large black dog that I assumed was Potter's godfather, Sirius Black, following at his heels. One day soon, I suspected, our little group was going to take over an entire train car. Wouldn't that be something.

"So," said Blaise, to my car full of people with whom I was on a first-name basis. "Some summer." We all nodded.

"I think we're supposed to be spending this time asking each other how our summer was," Ginny said. "But obviously..." we all nodded.

"Frankly, I'm not sure how we're not all sick of each other," Tracey said.

"Double negative, Trace," Daphne corrected absently, and Tracey glared.

"That's kind of what I mean, Daph," she said, before turning to the rest of us. "Any idea what this year's going to bring?" I didn't. Personally, I remembered it being a pretty quiet year, except for that whole Sirius Black thing – and it wasn't like that was going to be an issue this year.

"I think we cover boggarts this year," Blaise said. "Lupin was saying something about it during our transfiguration bits," he explained to the three of us who'd been in potions with my godfather. I nodded.

"We should probably keep up our practices," I said. "And I've been itching to pick up the sword again, Blaise," I added. My sometime sparring partner smirked.

"Miss getting your arse handed to you that badly, do you?" he asked. I glared back at him, and Ginny coughed.

"So, how about our Quidditch team?" she asked, clearly attempting to change the subject. We bit, however.

"I hear Flint actually managed to graduate," Tracey said. "And Higgs is gone, too. I think Bole and Bletchley are the only upper grades still around." I nodded my agreement.

"I wonder who made captain?" I asked. "I got the feeling that Bole didn't want the job, so I guess Bletchley?" I wondered who my Godfather would have appointed. Surely not me – godparental bias aside, I knew he would put the person most likely to win us the cup in charge.

"Did I hear my name?" a voice called from the corridor, and sure enough, Miles Bletchley poked his head into our compartment. "Talking Quidditch, then?" he asked, with a sideways glance at Luna. "She's not spying for Ravenclaw, is she?" Luna laughed.

"No," she said. "Nor for Gryffindor. Nor will I spy for you all," she added, fixing our compartment with an intense stare. Daphne broke the silence.

"So, Hufflepuff, then?" she said, to general amusement. Luna shook her head.

"They have Cedric Diggory in charge, and wouldn't take it if I offered," she said, sounding completely serious. "Plus, the entire team seems to be affected by wrackspurts, and I don't know if they're contagious or not. Best not to chance it," she concluded, matter-of-factly. Bletchley manged to wipe the confused look off his face.

"I'll take that as a no," he said dryly. "So yes, I'm captain, but I'm holding tryouts this year, and if you all outfly me, that's fine too. So long as we win," he added. "Let's not be crazy here." He grinned. "Anyway, it's my last year here, so I don't care about playing so much as going out with a winning team. I'm not going to play professionally, after all."

"What are you planning on, then?" I asked. "Ministry job?" I seemed to recall Bletchley being a pureblood, and thus almost guaranteed a position. To my surprise, he shook his head.

"Naw. There's a spot opening up on the Quidditch beat at the  _Prophet_ after this year," he said. Luna huffed. "Aw, don't look at me like that, Lovegood," he said. " _Quibbler_  doesn't have a sports section after all." He threw a cheeky grin her way, and she crossed her arms.

"And I suppose the pay is better," she conceded reluctantly, still obviously upset at Bletchley's upcoming employment with her magazine's bitter rival. The affable Quidditch captain bowed.

"Of course," he admitted. "One has to eat, after all." He looked around. "I'll set try-out dates with Snape soonest, but expect them to be the first or second weekend," Bletchley said. "I'm particularly interested in which of you two is a better Seeker, Malfoy, Weasley." I groaned, having completely forgotten that Ginny was now my top competition for my spot, but Bletchley didn't catch it as he left the compartment.

"Actually, I was thinking of going out for Chaser," Ginny said. "Seeker's fun and all, but I'd rather play the whole game, thanks." Blaise perked up at this.

"So that puts you, me, Tracey and Seamus at least competing for Chaser," he said. "Someone's bound to be disappointed." He paused. "But then again, that's Quidditch. I'll feel bad for whichever one of you gets dropped, of course," he added pompously. Tracey laughed.

"You're so full of crap, Blaise," she said. "And you are absolutely going down."

Quidditch talk dominated the compartment for most of the trip, ranging from general disdain for the other House teams (except from Luna) to thoughts on the upcoming Quidditch World Cup and which countries' teams had the best chances. League Quidditch came up as it began to get dark outside, and Blaise and I were in the middle of a lively argument as to whether or not the Falmouth Falcons or the Tutshill Tornadoes would take the league this year when the ice started forming on the windows.

"Seriously, though, the Falcons have the better chaser team, even if Tutshill – oh, that's not good," I said, watching the windows rime up. "What's causing that?" I asked. In hindsight, I should have realized – but I didn't think they'd be here, not with Black all pardoned.

"Does anyone else feel cold?" Daphne asked, shuddering. All of us nodded, bundling our cloaks around us and crowding together for warmth. It didn't help; I felt the chill as if all my clothes were damp and I was walking in the winter wind on the Hogwarts grounds. Then, the first tingles of fear hit.

I heard a rattling outside the compartment, bones dragging against the metal of the train, and whispered breath. I felt sharp pain beginning on my back, scars from a flogging that had never happened, and I heard the Dark Lord's high-pitched laughter, heard him thanking me for allowing his return.  _I shall attend to Draco Malfoy_ , he said in front of the massed crowds in the Great Hall, and the fear compounded, sending icy knives into my gut.

I tried to shut it out, slamming shut mental barriers honed from three years of Occlumency practice. I could feel the fear rush against them like the cold waves of the North Sea against the Scottish shore, and nearly keeled over right there. It was incredibly different from fending off Legilimency. Where my Godfather's mind felt like a thousand wisps of light probing for information, and what little I'd felt of Dumbledore's mind was similar, if an order of magnitude stronger, these were battering rams against the walls of my Occlumency. Whatever it was, it didn't want information, didn't want to break into my mind. It simply wanted my mind broken.

When I could look around, I saw the rest of the compartment even worse off. Luna was on the floor, nearly catatonic, and Ginny was silently mouthing one word – Tom – over and over. Blaise's eyes flickered around the room in abject terror, as if something was going to leap from the shadows to stab him, and Tracey's eyes were filled with tears as she pleaded for some unknown enemy to stop. Only Daphne seemed better off than I, and she, too, was clearly terrified. Still, she had the presence of mind to do what I could not.

" _Protego,_ " she whispered, and a shimmering field of force interposed itself between us and the door. The waves receded only the slightest amount, but it helped – at least until the door opened, and a scabby, bony hand reached through. The fingers traced along the shield charm, making it ripple. Then it dissolved as if it had never been, and the hooded horror forced its way through. Now I recognized it, and would have kicked myself for not immediately thinking "Dementor" if I'd had the spare energy to kick. As it was, I could only watch, terrified, as it moved toward us.

" _Expecto Patronum!_ " a voice called, and a great, shaggy silver dog burst through the door. The Dementor hissed in fear and launched itself through the icy panes of the window without ever breaking the glass. The Patronus danced merrily around the room, licking Ginny's face and nudging Luna with its nose, imparting warm feelings wherever it went. As it brushed by, I finally felt able to let my Occlumency relax, and with it, the breath I didn't know I'd been holding.

"Are you all alive in here?" a shaggy-haired man asked, and Daphne made a slight eep of alarm before she caught herself. Well, twelve years of being told someone is a mass-murderer can be tough to break, and after all, it was the first time she'd seen Sirius Black.

"We're all fine, Mr. Black," I said. "Quite a bit shaken up, but alive and in one piece, soul and all." He looked straight at me.

"You're Narcissa's boy, aren't you?" he asked. I nodded, slowly. "Don't call me Mr. Black, cousin. My father was Mr. Black, as were any number of uncles and cousins, but I'm not. Don't call me that. I'm serious." I kept nodding.

"Yes, I know you're Sirius," I said, carefully deadpan, and to my surprise, he howled with laughter.

"I thought I was the only one who got to make those jokes!" he said, pulling out a large bar of chocolate from his robes. "Seriously, though," he said, "eat this, all of you. It helps." He broke the bar into several pieces, making sure Luna and Ginny got the biggest ones. "Never thought I'd be saving a bunch of Slytherins," he muttered, seemingly amused. I took my piece gladly; I was already going to have a pounding headache later from the Occlumency; I didn't want to compound it with the after-effects of Dementor shock.

"Sirius, are my brothers alright?" Ginny asked, and he looked up from handing Luna another piece of Honeydukes' finest.

"I'm sure they are," he said. "Remus – that is, Professor Lupin to you lot – was taking care of that half of the compartment." He shook his head. "Dementors, on the Hogwarts Express, I ask you," he said, and part of the fearless facade cracked a moment, showing us a glimpse of the man who'd spent twelve years around the awful things. "What will the Ministry think up next?" he added. "I've half a mind to talk to the press about it." Daphne, having recovered slightly better than the rest of us, asked the question I'm sure we were all thinking.

"Why are they here?" she asked. Black scowled, and for a moment, looked as murderous as we'd all thought him. Well, those of us who didn't know better, anyway.

"Searching for Peter Pettigrew," he said. "Traitorous rat that he is, the Ministry seems to think he'll come to Hogwarts, try to finish the job he started twelve years ago." Blaise, more composed after eating the chocolate, raised an eyebrow.

"And that's why you're here as well?" he asked. Black rolled his eyes.

"Merlin save me from paranoid Slytherins," he grumbled. "Unofficially, yes. Officially, I'm on leave from the Auror Corps, having accrued an otherwise-unacceptable level of use-or-lose vacation days." He brightened for a moment. "Plus, I get to spend time with my godson, and with my best remaining friend, so all in all a good thing." I nodded, understanding the sentiment, before a thought struck me.

"Can you and my godfather keep from killing each other this year?" I asked, half-accusing. "Because I've rather grown attached to him by now." If anything, Black's eye-rolls increased in orbit.

"I suppose I can try not to prank Snivellus too much," he said, as if it were some great concession. I raised an eyebrow to match Blaise's.

"How about a compromise," I said. "You can keep pranking him – I'm sure he'll give as good as he gets – and just stop calling him Snivellus instead." Black affected a look of wide-eyed innocence.

"But what should I call him?" he asked. "That's his name, isn't it?"

"You could try 'Severus,' if you felt really daring," I drawled. "Or, since you're going to be working with the school, 'Professor Snape' would be appropriate." The other Slytherins behind me nodded vigorously. Black cringed.

"Oh, bugger, he's your head of house, isn't he?" he said. "Fine. I'll try to call Sniv..." he paused at our glare, then corrected himself. "SNAPE by something resembling his given name. Any other, similarly world-changing resquests? Perhaps you'd like me to teach trolls to dance, or the Giant Squid to host a game show?"

"Can I have an interview?" Luna blurted. "I always wanted to know what it's like, being in a rock band." Black goggled. "The Hobgoblins?" she continued. "You're really Stubby Boardman, right?"

* * *

"Welcome, welcome to another year at Hogwarts," the Headmaster boomed, addressing the packed Great Hall. "In just a few moments, you'll welcome in the next batch of first-years, and I'm sure they'll be happy in whatever house they are placed." His twinkling eyes didn't falter too much at that, even as he glanced over toward us Slytherins. At least we'd gotten rid of those damnable hats this year. I had no idea what was up with those. Clearly some Gryffindor's idea.

"After last year's excitement, however, I daresay this year will be quite dull," Dumbledore continued. "As dull as any year at Hogwarts can be, of course," he added, to thunderous applause. "Now, before we begin the sorting, I have the usual staff announcements to make. First, we are pleased to welcome Mr. R.J. Lupin, who will be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts this year." There was the usual scattered applause we gave the new DADA teacher each year, made louder at the Gryffindor and Slytherin tables from those of us who'd had him over the summer. My godfather, of course, scowled, but it was clear that he was mainly doing it for show by this point.

"As to our second new appointment: well, I am sorry to tell you that Professor Kettleburn, our Care of Magical Creatures teacher, retired at the end of last year in order to enjoy more time with his remaining limbs," the Headmaster said. "However, I am delighted to say that his place will be filled by none other than Rubeus Hagrid, who has agreed to take on this teaching job in addition to his gamekeeping duties." More polite, if somewhat nervous, applause. I clapped politely: I'd already decided not to take Care of Magical Creatures this time around, instead continuing on with Arithmancy and Ancient Runes, so I wasn't worried about being nearly killed by a vicious, rampaging Hippogriff.

"Finally, our Flight Mistress, Rolanda Hooch, is taking this year off, as she has been commissioned to re-write the newest edition of  _Quidditch Through the Ages_ ," he said, to immediate excited murmurs. "Though she'll return to us next year, we're delighted to have vacationing Auror and Gryffindor Quidditch Alumnus Sirius Black filling in for her." More applause followed, along with a great deal of nervous chattering. Black hadn't said anything about the post when we'd talked on the train, but given the rakish grin he was sporting as he toasted the hall from the staff table, it was possible he wanted to surprise his godson. I looked around to see Potter's reaction, but he didn't seem to be there.

"Hey," I said, nudging Seamus, who'd not been with us on the train. "What happened to Potter?" Seamus turned to face me as the Professor called in the first-years.

"Bad Dementor reaction," he said. "Old McGonagall took him up to the hospital wing, along with Ginny and Lovegood." The Irishman shuddered. "Nasty things, those Dementors," he said, needlessly. I nodded my agreement as the Sorting Hat finished what sounded like a series of haiku describing the houses.

I didn't recognize most of the first-years, having never paid them much mind before. I cheered with the rest of the house as we picked up a few new Slytherins, of course, and noticed the divide from last year was still present. Vince and Greg looked particularly lonely at their end of the table without Theo around, and I resolved to find the ghost of my former classmate as soon as I could. Most of the Slytherin first-years seemed to end up sitting on our side, however, including a tiny, fierce eleven-year-old I barely recognized as Daphne's younger sister, Astoria.

Finally, after "Vane, Romilda," was sorted into Gryffindor, the Headmaster let us tuck in. If the wide array of chocolate-based desserts was intentional, no one made a fuss about it, at least that I could hear. Personally, I was just glad to eat well and get to sleep. It had been a trying day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the uninitiated, Use-or-Lose Leave is a term used by government employees to refer to vacation time not taken in excess of the maximum amount allowed. For instance, in the Air Force, we were allowed to bank up a total of sixty days (accruing about thirty days each year). This was presumably to keep us from banking up six years' worth of leave and then leaving our offices high and dry for half a year at the end of our term. In any event, since Amelia Bones' solution to Sirius' incarceration was to list him on the active Auror rolls less his one year served for Failure to Register, he has 11 years' vacation time saved up – in this case, about nine months (because it fits the story for it to be that much). Later in the chapter, Professor Dumbledore's speech regarding Kettleburn and Hagrid is lifted directly from Prisoner of Azkaban, mainly because I found the line quietly hilarious. I kind of wanted to keep Kettleburn around, mainly so I could work his first name into the story and make a Warcraft reference at the same time, but I thought that might be a petty reason to include a character, so I did not. Finally, as to why Ginny and Luna also had bad reactions, well, Ginny has recent possession for the Dementors to bring to the surface, and it's only been a few years since Luna watched her mother die. If Draco wasn't an Occlumens, he'd be up there too, but it's hard to tell a story from a hospital bed without a lot of needless exposition.
> 
> "The Death Eaters were created by Wizards. Some of them think that they are wizards. There are many Horcruxes. And J.K. Rowling has a plan."


	31. The Cup of Helga Hufflepuff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Snape gets the first information on those dastardly Horcruxes, and Draco and Potter make a trip to Diagon Alley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "60. “The Giant Space Ants” are not at the top of my chain of command."  
> \- 213 Things Skippy is No Longer Allowed to Do in the U.S. Army

My good mood lasted only a week and a half, before the second Double Potions lab with the Gryffindors called a halt to it. My godfather was in fine form, and if anything, was harder on Granger and me, who had proven our potions prowess over the summer, than he was on Longbottom and Finnegan – despite the latter twosome's serious progress toward blowing up the laboratory.

"Potter, what is this?" he asked, waving dismissively at the Boy-Who-Lived's potion.

"Um, a Forgetfulness Potion, sir?" he asked. I shook my head ruefully, though thankfully, Granger's bushy hair hid me from my godfather's eyes.

"Shouldn't have phrased it in the form of a question," Granger muttered, concentrating on her brew.

"You'd think he'd have learned," I agreed, stirring thrice clockwise.

"Clearly you've taken a Forgetfulness Potion yourself," my godfather sneered, "As you forgot to add the Valerian sprigs!  _Evanesco!_ " he exclaimed, vanishing the potion. "Honestly, Potter, we covered this in first year! Detention! Tomorrow night, my office!" Potter hung his head, and Weasley clapped him on the back bracingly. My godfather, meanwhile, stalked over to our table.

"Barely adequate, Granger," he sneered, "But it will have to do. Perhaps you should be assisting your partner," he added, glaring at me, "who seems to have forgotten much during his stay in the Hospital Wing last year. Perhaps, Mr. Malfoy," he said, "you can join Mr. Potter in remedial potions tomorrow evening." With that, he swept off to castigate Longbottom and Finnegan, leaving Granger and I with nearly-identical looks of confusion on our faces. I noticed, however, that he didn't vanish my potion as he did Potter's, so at least I'd get a grade on this assignment.

The following evening, a Friday night, found Potter and I at my godfather's office.

"What do you think we'll be doing?" he asked. I shrugged.

"Given that he mentioned 'remedial potions', I highly doubt we'll be sorting frog entrails without gloves," I drawled. He perked up at that.

"Well, that's something, at least," he said, and we knocked on the door.

"Enter," my godfather bade, and we did. "Shut the door, please," he said, and as we complied, gestured to two chairs sitting in front of his desk. "Nothing we speak of tonight is to leave this room," he said. "Mr. Potter, my apologies, you did not, in fact, forget the Valerian sprigs." At Potter's incredulous look, my godfather only smiled, thin and dark. "I merely required a reason to assign you detention, and you have unfortunately been working hard to keep me from doing so this year." He raised his glass to Potter, then drank.

"If I may, Professor Snape, why  _are_ we here, if not for detention?" Potter asked. Good, at least he was trying for respectful. That would get him a little more leniency with my godfather, certainly.

"To discuss the Dark Lord, his inevitable return, and what we are going to do about it," my godfather said. "I am sure the Headmaster spoke with you after that fracas with the Philosopher's Stone, yes?" Potter nodded.

"He said Voldemort would try another way, after the stone was destroyed," Potter said. "Do you mean to say you've figured out how he's coming back?" My godfather shook his head.

"I don't know how he plans on returning, but I am quite aware of why he has not completely died," he said. "Draco actually clued me into it," he added, and I definitely appreciated him not saying 'Draco had to tell me to my face, and he used small words', as that would arouse undue curiosity toward me and a loss of confidence in my godfather. "After the incident in the Chamber of Secrets last year." Potter tilted his head in confusion.

"The diary?" he asked. "I thought that was just a memory of Voldemort," he said, and we both cringed again.

"Can you please stop saying that!" I hissed, bad memories of my own coming to the fore again. My godfather nodded.

"It's not that we're afraid of the name, Mr. Potter, but some of us have unpleasant memories associated with that particular name, to say the least," he said, rubbing his left arm. Potter stared at it before shaking himself out of it.

"Tom, then," he said. "Tom Riddle is his real name anyway." I nodded.

"I can call him that," I said, picturing for one brief, glorious moment, the look on the Dark Lord's face as Potter called him by his given name the first time around.  _You dare!_  Yes, yes we do. After a moment's hesitation, my godfather nodded his agreement.

"Tom, then," he said. "The diary was indeed a memory, but a particular kind." He pulled out a worn, yet fat, book out from his desk. "These are the collected research notes of a wizard named Herpo the Foul," he said. "I spent all summer tracking them down in places too unsavory to mention." He shuddered.

"Notes on what?" I asked, already guessing at the answer. My godfather rolled his eyes at me.

"One particular magical process," he said. "One of which other books, even the so-called  _Secrets of the Darkest Arts_ , found in our own Restricted Section, only make the slightest passing mention." He paused, drawing in a breath – the man knew how to play a room, I've always given him that. "The creation of a Horcrux." Potter's confused look grew.

"What is a Horcrux, Professor?" he asked.

"An object in which a witch or wizard has secreted away a part of their soul," my godfather responded. "In order to live forever, so long as these objects last." He shuddered. "Even the darkest wizards and witches throughout history only made one, at most," he said. "Beyond the tearing of the soul in the first place, the ritual itself is unspeakable."

"Tearing the soul?" Potter asked. "How does one tear the soul?"

"Murder," I answered, somewhat intimately familiar with the idea from my first trip around. It was Potter himself who told me, during the brief period after the battle before I made my trip back here, that Snape had euthanized Dumbledore in order to keep me from splitting my soul with murder. Not that I could do it anyway. I could pull off a Cruciatus curse in a pinch, and of course, the Imperius came naturally to me, but  _Avada Kedavra_  and I never seemed to get along. Potter, to his credit, nodded.

"That makes sense – not just simple killing, but outright murder?" he clarified, and my godfather nodded. "Otherwise, every other Auror would have a split soul," Potter muttered.

"Indeed," my godfather confirmed dryly, and I suspected he was thinking of a few Aurors who had a split something, if not a soul, Mad-Eye Moody first among them. "In any event, most would-be Dark Lords who even attempted the rituals only made one. Gellart Grindlewald, for example, never made any." I was surprised by that, actually, but was distracted by my godfather's next statement. "Herpo the Foul, who took these extensive notes on the process, made two." He shook his head. "And my former master would tell anyone who would listen and a few who couldn't care how he had gone further than any before him on the road to immortality." He rubbed his forehead.

"So Volde– sorry,  _Tom_ made at least two of these?" Potter said. "And the diary was one of them, but it's been destroyed." He twisted up his face. "It  _has_  been destroyed, right?"

"Of course," I confirmed. "You killed it yourself, with the basilisk." I shook my head. "But I think what Professor Snape is saying is that Tom made at least three. 'Further than any before him,' right?" My godfather nodded.

"It's highly likely that he made at least four, and probably no more than six," he corrected. "Looking at this logically, he would have made more than Herpo, which means three or more. We can assume that, however many pieces the Dark Lord broke his soul, he'd be counting the one in his body as one piece, meaning if he created three Horcruxes, he'd have four pieces of his soul. However, as you're no doubt learning in Arithmancy, Draco, four isn't a very good number for immortality. Too many cultures regard it as being highly tied to death. So he could have made four, leaving five pieces total." I nodded.

"Five is a fairly solid number," I said. "But you said probably no more than six?" He nodded.

"Seven is widely considered the most magically powerful number, and I think he'd want to aim for that," my godfather said. "So six Horcruxes plus the piece within him. I doubt he had made his sixth yet, if he did go that far," he added. I shook my head, confused. I knew he'd had six Horcruxes by the time Potter destroyed him, but I couldn't exactly come out with that, could I?

"Why is that?" I asked, instead. Potter nodded his agreement with the question.

"Because he'd want to finish his work with the defeat of a great foe, or, perhaps, a prophesied enemy," my godfather said.

"Me," Potter whispered. "He was going to make a Horcrux with my death?" My godfather nodded.

"I have reason to think so," he said. "The Dark Lord chose to believe you were the subject of a prophecy made before you were born." He coughed. "I only heard half of it," he explained, "but then again, so did the Dark Lord." Potter glared at him.

"You told him, didn't you?" he accused. My godfather nodded, slowly.

"And then told Dumbledore when he went after you and your parents," he said. "Told him to hide you all, to keep the Dark Lord from finding you." Potter's face grew even more confused.

"Why?" he asked. My godfather looked on the urge of answering honestly, before he replaced the open look on his face with a cold sneer.

"Perhaps I couldn't stomach the idea of a one-year-old baby being murdered in cold blood," he scowled. "I'm not entirely heartless, Potter, nor was I the only Death Eater who got cold feet at the kind of atrocities the Dark Lord bade us commit." His face grew colder. "I am simply one of the few who got out." Potter was silent for a moment, clearly considering this new information.

"What did the prophecy say?" he asked. "The part that you heard?" My godfather sighed.

"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches," he quoted. "Born to those who have thrice defied him. Born as the seventh month dies." He shook his head. "That's all I heard. It could have applied to two boys, you know," he said. "Thank Merlin it was you and not Longbottom; I don't know if the world would have survived." Potter glared at him.

"Neville's a better man than you give him credit for," he spat. "And if it had been Neville and not me, my parents might still be alive."

My godfather sat stock still, gripping the table with white knuckles, and I wasn't sure which of them had crossed a line, but knew we had to move to a different topic, fast, before the room exploded.

"And the Horcruxes?" I asked. "Do we have any idea what the others are?" The diary, the ring, the locket, the cup, the diadem and the snake, I thought, but couldn't say it. At the very least, I would find myself in the Headmaster's office, with a number of people rifling through my head. At worst, I would find myself dead or under lock and key in the Department of Mysteries. None of the above seemed very appealing. My godfather shook his head.

"No, but I may have a lead on where one of them is," he said. "Bellatrix Lestrange was one of his most trusted followers, far more than I ever was." He sneered. "Toward the end, she kept babbling on about some mission the Dark Lord had given her, keeping something important of his hidden. I dismissed it at the time as the ravings of the madwoman she undoubtably is, but perhaps..." he poured himself another firewhiskey, and Potter jumped on the statement.

"Perhaps it's something more," he said. "Perhaps a Horcrux." He frowned. "But where would she keep something like that safe?" I rolled my eyes.

"Where does any Pureblood put something they don't want anyone else to have?" I asked. "Gringotts. Her vault in Gringotts." I hung my head, suddenly realizing what that meant. "Oh, Salazar, we don't have to deal with the Goblins, do we?" Thankfully, my godfather shook his head.

"As she's serving a life sentence in Azkaban, her belongings should have passed down to her next of kin. With Rodolphus and Rabastian both in Azkaban as well, that leaves your mother, Draco." I shook my head.

"Yes, but I was disowned," I said. "That rather puts a crimp in our plans, doesn't it?"

"Wait a tic," Potter spoke up. "Didn't I read about your father being incarcerated and most of your mother's assets being seized?" I glared at him.

"Yes, and thank you so much for reminding me, Potter," I said. "While you're at it, why don't you just stab me and rub some salt in it. But I don't see how that helps," I added, before I could grumble any further. "If she'd claimed the vault, then the Ministry likely has it now." He smiled that grin that my godfather says makes him want to smack Potter.

" _If_  she claimed it," he said. "If she didn't, it would go to the next living Black not in Azkaban, right?" My godfather looked up and started vigorously shaking his head.

"No. I will not work with him on this. No. Not now, not ever. No, no, no. And that's final."

* * *

"How did I get roped into this again?" Sirius Black asked, as soon as we re-appeared in the Gringotts lobby after flooing from Hogsmeade. "I mean, helping Snape? Breaking about fifty school rules while employed as a teacher?" He paused for a moment. "Wait, I don't particularly care about rules. At all. But helping Snape?"

"Think of it as helping your godson and his friend," Potter said, and I rolled my eyes. Black straightened up.

"Since when are you friends with Slytherins, anyway?" he asked. "In my day, the houses didn't really associate that much, at least not Slytherin and Gryffindor." Potter shrugged.

"Times change," he said, and isn't that more the truth than he knew.

"And anyway, I'm kind of family, right?" I said, to Sirius' scowl.

"I never liked most of my family, kid," he said. "Except cousin Andy and her kid." I raised an eyebrow.

"By 'cousin Andy,' I assume you mean Aunt Andromeda?" I asked. The animagus nodded.

"I'm surprised you've heard of her," he admitted. I shrugged.

"Just because she was disowned doesn't mean she wasn't my mother's sister," I said. "I've never met her, but Mum used to act like she was simply living far away rather than, you know..." I trailed off. I hadn't seen my mother in months – technically, more than a year, though I'd been unconscious for the better part of it. I wondered if she acted like I was simply on holiday in a far-off land, as well. "So the criteria for you liking a family member is they have to have been disowned?" I said. "So be it, I can work with that." Potter snickered.

"I'm missing something here," Black said, frowning.

"Draco's father disowned him at the end of our first year for associating with Gryffindors," Potter said. I scowled.

"It was slightly more complicated than that," I disagreed. Potter raised an eyebrow. "Just slightly," I amended. Black rolled his eyes. "It was!" I said. Potter smirked. Damn, I thought, I know that smirk. I suddenly worried I might actually have been rubbing off on him – and then wondered how much the golden boy of Gryffindor was rubbing off on me.

"Well, yes," he said. "Ernie MacMillan told me you robbed him of his house-elf, as well. Good job, that," he added. "I doubt your father treated him very well." Black snorted.

"That's a bit of an understatement," he clarified, as we boggled at him. "Lucius always was a bit of an arrogant, power-mad prat, even in school." He shrugged. "Than again, I thought most of the Slytherins were. I guess that's changed," he said. I shook my head.

"Only half right," I said. "The other half tend to ignore us. Apparently those of us willing to be contributing members of society lack ambition, and are thus beneath them." I snorted. "As if Blaise's not-so-secret desire to play for England, or Tracey's goal to be the first half-blood female Minister for Magic makes us any less ambitious than the rest." My godfather's sneer was already on my face by this point, and Black was already looking down at Potter and I amusedly.

"You remind me of someone," he said, cryptically, then moved out of his musing before I could ask further. "Anyway, here's Gringotts."

Mindful of the Probity Probes in the hands of the guard-Trolls, we entered the lobby, where a goblin fawned over Potter and Black for their fortunes and subtly snubbed me. It was all the same to me, really, since I was fairly sure I was at least getting honest treatment. In any event, we made it to the bottom of the vaults alright, and after passing a rather decrepit, but no less frightening, dragon, we found ourselves in front of the Vault of Lestrange.

"So all I have to do is touch it, and it should recognize me as the rightful heir?" Black asked. The goblin – Grip-something-or-other, I could never remember goblin names – nodded.

"Unless you aren't, in which case you'll be dead before you can regret it," he said. Potter shuddered, and I said nothing – it sounded like a joke, but who knew with goblins?

"No pressure," Black said, chuckling nervously. "Alright, here I gaahhhh!" He was shaking violently, his entire body getting into it, and I was reminded, suddenly and awfully, of a Death Eater undergoing the Dark Lord's Cruciatus curse. Potter flinched, trying to drag Black away from the door, when suddenly Black's yells turned into laughter.

"You should see the look on your faces," he said, grinning. Potter lunged at him.

"Not funny!" he yelled, shaking his godfather. "I thought you were dying!"

"Unlikely," the goblin deadpanned, pushing past Black into the opened vault. "If the door had killed him, there wouldn't have been anything left to rescue, just a pile of dust." Black's grin suddenly turned into a frozen mask of horror.

"Wait, you were serious?" he asked the goblin, who chuckled unnervingly.

"I'm always serious," he said. I couldn't resist.

"No,  _he's_  always Sirius," I said, pointing to Black. Potter groaned as we entered the vault. At first, I was sure it was just the bad pun, but after a moment, Black and I turned to find him clutching his scar.

"Something's... something's here," he gasped out. "Up there, on the shelf," he added, after a moment. Black reached up and grabbed a golden chalice, two-handled and finely-wrought, from the top of a stack of books on the Dark Arts. A glittering badger of exceptional craftsmanship shone on the front of the goblet, though for a moment I thought I saw red in its eyes.

"That's not goblin-made," the goblin said, awestruck, "but it is quite close in its quality. Perhaps dwarven?" he looked half-lost in the thing's beauty. "Badger on the side suggests possible connection with Hufflepuff family..." I laid a hand on his shoulder.

"And it's clearly cursed very heavily," I said. "So back off." Grip-thingy did manage to shake off whatever compulsion was drawing him toward it, but kept stealing glances at the cup when he didn't think we were looking.

"How do we... how do we..." Potter was cringing, clearly not used to the kind of evil the cup radiated.

"Destroy it?" Black asked, and Potter nodded from the floor. "No idea. Did Sniv... did Snape have any clue?" he asked me. I shook my head.

"Basilisk venom, maybe," I said. He and I had talked about it, but that was the best we could come up with. "It's what destroyed the diary, after all. But unless we want to take this thing back to school..." Harry shook his head adamantly. "Department of Mysteries, maybe?"

* * *

"Department of Mysteries," the voice sang out, far too cheerful for a speaker which had, just moments ago, been playing "Girl from Ipanema" unironically. Potter and I had badges with our names on them, and "Mission to Save the World" under "Purpose of Visit." Black's looked similar, though his read "Up To No Good" instead.

"I want to keep this thing," he said, and for a moment I worried he was talking about the Horcrux. Then I realized he meant the badge. " 'Sirius Black: Up To No Good.' I like it. It's got a bit of a ring to it," he said. "Maybe I'll get Moony to come get one too."

"Can we please get this over with?" Potter asked, glaring at the lead-lined box we were now holding the Horcrux in. After he started bleeding from the nose – and his scar – while we were in the lobby, and Grip-whatever-his-name-was began to make noises about "his precious," the goblins wisely provided us with something shielded. As such, Potter was moving around upright, though he still looked rather green around the gills.

"Sure," Black said. "Any minute now..." he continued, looking around the oval chamber with strange markings. "Ah, here one is," he said as a blue-robed Unspeakable exited a door marked with an enormous cogwheel.

"Ah, what?" The dark-haired man asked. "What's all this, then?" He fidgeted a bit, as if anxious to get back to his research. Black stuck out his hand with something like a winning smile.

"Sirius Black," he said. "This is Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy. We need to speak with a senior Unspeakable," he said. "No offense, but this is some pretty off-the-books stuff we've got here." The Unspeakable paused a moment, as if unsure of the proper protocol, then extended his own hand. I noticed it looked rather artificial.

"Junior Unspeakable Donal MacFinn," he said, twitching. "I'll fetch Senior Unspeakable Croaker for you, then. He's better at interfacing with non-qualified Wizards." He brushed off behind a door marked with an enormous brain before I could be offended on all our behalfs. I suspected Potter and Black needed the moment to realize they should be, but Potter raised an eyebrow at me.

"Ravenclaw?" he guessed. Black grunted.

"Probably," I drawled, as a much older man, white-haired and clanking along on what looked to be a prosthetic set of legs, ambled in.

"Senior Unspeakable Algernon Croaker," he said. "Call me Algie. Sorry about MacFinn there; he's much better with machines than people," he explained, shaking all our hands. His looked like they might be real, but I could tell he'd replaced one of his eyes with something, as it glowed bright blue. "Works with Muggle technology, you see, trying to adapt it to our world."

"Has he had any success?" Sirius asked. "I had a motorcycle I wouldn't mind him taking a look at..." he trailed off. Croaker grunted.

"Some," he admitted. "Bring it in some time, we'll see if we can't get it up to code." I cleared my throat.

"If we're done reliving an episode of  _Doctor Who,_ " I drawled, "And yes, Potter, I've seen a Muggle telly show, try not to faint – perhaps we could deal with this?" I pointed at the box.

"What's in there?" Croaker asked. Black smiled grimly.

"What do you know about destroying Horcruxes?" he asked. Croaker smiled.

"I have just the thing."

In retrospect, I'm not sure where I thought the Ministry disposed of the mountains of waste they must have generated each day, but a thaumatechnological incinerator running off Fiendfyre certainly wasn't it. Even more unsettling was the Unspeakable's maniacal laughter as he placed the Horcrux – lead-lined box and all – in the center of it with two additional limbs clearly made of some form of metal. I supposed the robes covered stuff like that, but I also suspected, despite his genial manner, that Algie Croaker and the other Unspeakables didn't get out much. The laughter continued as he handed us all goggles to put on, then flipped a comically-large red switch, filling the chamber with an orange glow from the incinerator's window.

"We used to use a giant button," he cawed, "but the temptation was too much for us to push it!" Through his goggles, Black peered in at the raging inferno.

"Are you sure this will work?" he asked, looking worriedly down at his godson, who'd curled up into a ball almost the moment the switch went on as the lead melted away. Croaker continued chortling.

"It's hot enough in there to fricassee a Heliopath," he cackled. "We can't even have Salamanders anymore, they just burn right up!" As the flames raged on, Potter stood up from the ground, a look of quiet victory shining across his face.

"It's gone," he said. "I can't feel it anymore."

Sure enough, when Croaker opened the door, nothing at all was left. No slags of metal, nothing.

"Take that, thermodynamics," Croaker crowed.

Two down, I thought. At least two more to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If Lucius Malfoy was still around to be Slytherin Prefect when Snape was in school, he was clearly around when Sirius was as well. The jury is out as to whether our Marauders got one, two or three years of him, but I suspect an impression might have formed. As for Harry's reaction to the Horcrux, other than the diary, he'd never been exposed to one until after Voldemort's little ritual. I'm assuming that ritual made the connection between them less painful for Harry. If that's a little off, then so be it. Acceptable breaks from reality – and by reality, I mean canon – are kind of the rule of the day here.
> 
> As I have said before, there won't be any real shipping until our Slytherin hits fourth year. Hormones and puberty are having an effect on Draco that he didn't really expect, but it's going to take him a little while longer to act his age instead of older. With that said, I will not be writing slash, especially not a Drarry fic. I can't put myself in the mindset, at least not for first-person, and would probably just offend everybody. If slash pairings appear at all, they'll be in the background, along with all other pairings that don't involve our point-of-view protagonist. You're welcome to guess at pairings in advance, but everybody needs a lot more character development before any of them become valid, so it could be a while.
> 
> "Fourteen years ago, a cast of characters was set to paper by a British author for a book of magic. These men and women promptly escaped from the series proper to the fanfiction underground. Today, still owned by J.K. Rowling, they survive as soldiers of fortune. If you have a plotline, if no one else will do, and if you can handle them, maybe you can hire... the Potterverse."


	32. To Achieve Their Ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Draco realizes he has not been particularly Slytherin, and deals with the ensuing fallout, and in which we return after a hiatus of near-Sherlockian proportions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "7. Not allowed to add "In accordance with the prophecy" to the end of answers I give to a question an officer asks me."  
> — 213 Things Skippy Is No Longer Allowed to Do in the United States Army

When last we left our intrepid hero, I was scared out of my Merlin-begotten pants by an Unspeakable who probably belonged in a Muggle Sci-Fi film. I half expected him to proclaim himself my father… but sadly, I knew where my father was, and it was decidedly  _not_  incinerating a portion of the Dark Lord's soul, bound to the mortal vessel of, well, a vessel. In this case, the Cup of Helga Hufflepuff. Though it had been only a week, from the nightmares, it felt like more than a year - and who knows what was lost in the meanwhile?

Two Horcruxes down. By the Godfather Theory (read: the only thing upon which my godfather and Potter's godfather had yet managed to agree), that meant there were at least two left, and probably no more than four, of the vile soul-containers left. We'd destroyed the Diary and the Cup. From Voldemort's insane ranting in the original timeline — Hogwarts Prime? That sounded a bit too Ravenclaw — that left the Snake, the Diadem, the Locket, and the Ring. Oh, and Potter had to die to make sure the Dark Lord did, but somehow, he'd come back. Did that mean Potter was a Horcrux too?

It bore considering, and I wasn't quite sure how to deal with that yet. An  _Avada Kedavra_  to the back was just not sporting, and while I had not the slightest problem with not being sporting, I'd grown to like Potter. Well, like was probably too strong a term. But a dead man couldn't play Quidditch, and he kept me on my toes on the pitch like no other seeker could.

Besides, I wasn't a killer, at least not with the Killing Curse. Aunt Bella was absolutely right: to really get the Unforgivables to work, you had to mean them. I could get the Cruciatus going on someone I really hated, and had enough of the willful child to ensure that my Imperius was second to none, but I'd had Albus Dumbledore in my sights and couldn't pull the trigger even if I'd wanted to.  _Avada Kedavra_ and I would never get along.

These thoughts and others kept me up at night, which proved fortuitous one night, when my dorm room door opened and a weedy-looking frame appeared, wand in hand. I was behind my bed with my own wand in hand, a stunning curse on my lips, before the light hit my pillow. I could see whomever it was scan the room, picking out the twin lumps of Crabbe and Goyle in their beds, noting Blaise's loud snores, skipping over the absence of bedding and bare frame where Theodore Nott had once slept.

" _Stupefy,_ " a voice said, and it wasn't mine. The figure dropped, stunned in the back, and in the door's light I could make out the face of Hector Montoya, a sixth-year Pureblood whose father had been the Dark Lord's man on the ground in Spain during the original timeline. " _Rennervate,"_  the voice continued, as a larger form — Miles Bletchley, my Quidditch captain, I could see as his face came into the light — knelt with his knee on Montoya's throat.

"Good morning, Hector," he said, affable as ever. "Were you looking for something?"

"Gasp, gurgle!" said Montoya, or at least he made noises that sounded much like a gasp and a gurgle.

"What's that? You were looking for Malfoy? No, no, no, that won't do at all," Bletchley continued, as if Montoya had actually given him an answer. "You see, I believe I told you Malfoy was off limits for your little shenanigans. It wouldn't do for him to take a cutting curse before the end of the Quidditch season, would it now?"

I paled. Montoya gurgled a bit more, and Bletchley shook his head.

"Oh, did you need more air? Is that what you're trying to say? 'Miles, give me more air?' That's very interesting. I know all about needing things, of course. We all need things, Hector. You know what I need?  _Draco Malfoy on a Salazar-damned broom, catching the snitch before Chang or Diggory can catch it_. I'd prefer he catch it before Potter does as well, but we both know that's a crap shoot. But I'll take two out of three. I can do just fine with two out of three, right? Like, for instance, these two out of three.  _Imperio._  Don't you dare scream.  _Crucio_."

Montoya didn't scream, even when Bletchley stood up and let him breathe. I could see Montoya's mouth open, but no sound came out but heavy breathing. On second thought, maybe I couldn't manage the Cruciatus — but Bletchley certainly looked like he could. He cut off the torture curse, leaving Montoya gasping on the floor.

"Now, what have we learned, Hector?" he asked, a teacher's smile on his face.

"Leave Malfoy alone," Montoya gasped, the Imperius compelling him to answer.

"Good," Bletchley said, "You'll remember that, at least, even if I can't allow you to remember anything else.  _Obliviate!_   _Stupefy!"_  He turned to me.

"Go to bed, Draco. You have Quidditch practice in five hours."

As he shut the door and I crawled back into bed, two thoughts went through my mind: first, that I had severely underestimated Miles Bletchley. Second, that while I had been off making friends with Gryffindors, I had completely forgotten there was a Slytherin house beside Quidditch, filled with the children of Death Eaters and the knowledge that I had been publicly disowned by the patriarch of House Malfoy… and apparently, my being on the Quidditch team was the only thing keeping them from hurting me.

It made sense: I was vulnerable. I had limited resources in the house to protect me, couldn't throw money at the problem anymore, and a sneering "My father will hear about this!" would only be cause for laughter. Half the Slytherins would use a strike at me to curry favor with my father; the other half would use it as a strike  _at_  him. The only way out of this was Slytherin cunning, and I had always embraced the other tenet of the house: Ambition.

"Salazar's teeth, I've been acting like a bloody Gryffindor," I said, apparently out loud, because Blaise rolled over and fixed me with a glare.

"We know. Go to sleep and deal with it tomorrow," he muttered, before taking his own advice. It did seem sound, and a few worried moments later, I dozed off.

* * *

I woke the next morning early, utterly exhausted but rather thrilled to not be dead. A good morning of Quidditch woke me up — Bletchley said not a word about his actions last night, and I followed his example — and even Crabbe and Goyle were grumpily civil to me on the pitch.

As it was Saturday, there was still brunch by the time we finished and gave the Gryffindors the pitch, and I sat down to a few rashers of bacon and some gammon to catalogue my assets. Clogged arteries be damned: I, sir, am a wizard, and there's a potion for that.

Arrayed against me: perhaps half of Slytherin house, third year and up. A somewhat smaller faction appeared noticeably and studiously neutral in outlook: in our year, only Millicent Bulstrode fell into that camp, while all the firsties and most of the second-years did by default. Allies: In our year, Blaise, obviously. Tracey Davis as well, primarily due to Quidditch and half-blood status. Seamus Finnegan for the same reasons. Crabbe and Goyle were loosely in the Junior Death Eater camp, but were strictly hands-off due to Quidditch, and their hearts were clearly not in it. I'd have to watch them — I doubted they could be brought to my side yet, but if I worked hard enough, I could probably convince them to sit neutral. That would, of course, require an ally.

"Tracey," I said, sliding in next to Davis, who, like me, had just changed after hitting the showers. "What's it going to take for Bulstrode to sit down and talk to me?" Tracey sized her up. The two were still friends, though she had far more in common with Daphne than either did with Millicent, but politics were never Davis' strong suit. I remembered a fun-loving girl I'd entirely ignored during the first go-around, and shook the thought off. I was trying to do better this time.

"You do mean politically, yes?" Davis responded. "'Cause I've got to tell you, Draco, I don't think you're her type." I nearly snorted, then thought better of it. Millicent wasn't a bad person, and I'd be too much of the old me, not enough of the new me, if I judged her entirely on her well-muscled appearance.

"Politically, yes," I said. "I'm sure I'd be curious to know what her type  _was_ , but I'm a little more concerned with not being murdered in my sleep at the moment."

"About bloody time," Blaise snorted from behind a  _Daily Prophet_. Davis smiled.

"You know she's not going to do that," she said. I nodded.

"I do. I actually admire her a bit. It's hard to stay neutral in such a polarized house as Slytherin is. But I actually want to see if she'll help me drag Vince and Greg over to her little bastion of autonomy." I gave it some visible thought, as if I had not already. "It benefits her as well, of course: more support in our year for her stance." Davis ate it up.

"I'll talk to her, but it will cost you," she said. "I want the rest of the year's worth of yours and Granger's potions notes." I shook my head. The fierce competition between Granger and myself in that class had more Galleons than I could presently afford riding on it, and too much note-sharing might put one of us ahead. I couldn't do it if that wasn't going to be me.

"The rest of the month's notes," I said. Davis smiled.

"The rest of the term, then," she said. "And you get Professor Black to teach me that trick he does with Transfiguration."

"You mean the Animagus transformation? That's worth the favor alone. No potions notes."

"Done," she said, and I realized that's what she'd wanted in the first place. The half-blood was more Slytherin than I'd given her credit for. Plus, if that wasn't a straight line, my name wasn't Draco Lucius Malfoy.

"Done," I agreed. "Now, if you don't mind, I need to go see a man about a dog."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lost more than 10k words in the Great Hard Drive Crash of 2012, and it kind of soured me on re-writing the rest of this story. A year and a half later, of course, I can no longer remember what those words were — so I am giving it another shot for National Novel Writing Month 2013. Thanks to all of you who are reading this again, and to those of you who read The Last Second Chance and the first part of this story during the long hiatus. Take that, Sherlock fandom. I think.
> 
> One more thing: as Draco and the Gryffindors start coming together, a few of them are likely to become animagi — and all of them will learn the Patronus charm, if they have not already. Your guesses and / or requests for animal forms are welcome in reviews.
> 
> And I'm totally posting this as I'm writing, so if you want to nitpick, do it in reviews and I'll change it. /shameless review whoring
> 
> "In the literary system, Harry Potter fans are represented by two separate but equally important groups: the fandom, who love the characters, make them our own, and write the fanfic; and J.K. Rowling, who owns and created them. These are their stories."


	33. The Dogfather, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Draco abuses a metaphor and outmaneuvers a professor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "24. Must not tell any officer that I am smarter than they are, especially if it's true."  
> — 213 Things Skippy Is No Longer Allowed To Do in the U.S. Army

"You actually went with 'I have to see a man about dog'?" Sirius Black asked. "I mean, it's a classic, don't get me wrong, but there's a reason nobody seriously says that anymore."

"Of course there is," I replied. "They can't seriously say something without being-"

"If you finish that sentence," Remus Lupin said, "I will use you, and not Peeves, to demonstrate  _waddiwasi_  in Defense on Monday."

"I was going to say grim, actually," I replied. "Not that that's much better."

"Did you have a point, cousin, or are you just in the teacher's lounge to flaunt school rules and make increasingly-awful puns?" Professor Black asked, a bit of a grin on his face. "Not that I disapprove of either, of course, but seriously, Flitwick or McGonagall could come in, and then where would I be?"

"In the doghouse, for sure," I agreed. Professor Lupin groaned. "Actually, all these canine-related puns are sort of related to my point. When did you start learning to become an animagus?" Sirius sobered immediately.

"I can see where you're going with this, Draco, but I advise you  _not_  to try to become an animagus with your friends. It takes a lot of hard work, and any wrong move or little mistake can result in permanent damage." He shook his head, ragged hair shaking with it. "And I know you're going to say 'but Professor Black! You, James Potter, and that idiot Pettigrew did it at 14, and probably started before that,' but we were really very lucky we didn't die a horrible, painful, and worst of all unattractive death." Professor Lupin nodded.

"You'd need someone who'd already gone through the transformation to instruct you, and it takes a lot of time," he said. "Time I doubt Professor McGonagall has, even if you were in her house." I rolled my eyes.

"You mean, the kind of time available to a part-time flying instructor lounging about the castle on paid administrative leave from the Auror department, who happens to transform into a shaggy, shameless black dog when he's feeling particularly barking?" I answered.

"Wait, you want  _me_  to teach you?" Professor Black said. "I'm not a teacher." I gave a knowing stare to his chest, where sat a Muggle nametag sticker proclaiming "I AM A TEACHER. ASK ME ABOUT DETENTIONS." It wasn't quite as catchy as "Sirius Black: Up To Know Good" (that button sat on the other side of his robes), but it did seem appropriate. In any event, Professor Black didn't seem to agree. "Flying doesn't count," he said. "All I have to do is tell a bunch of first-years to say 'up' and avoid falling of their brooms for a couple hours a week. This is actual, proper teaching. I can't teach you."

"Please?" I asked. "For a family member?" Professor Lupin snickered.

"Come on, Padfoot. I'd be good for you," he said. Professor Black sighed.

"I can't," Professor Black said. I thought of something else.

"I'll stop asking you to teach me if you'll do me a favor," I offered. His eyes narrowed.

"Go on," he allowed, wary.

"I find myself without a surname, and I might shortly be getting sued over it. My mother was a Black before she was a Malfoy. Write a letter authorizing me to use 'Black' as my surname, so I can actually have a name without getting accused of Line Theft?" I asked, getting it all out in one breath.

"And you'll stop asking me to teach you the animagus transformation?" he asked.

"Of course," I said. "I am a man of my word."

"A thirteen-year-old of your word, actually," Professor Lupin said. "You won't be a man of your word for another four years."

"What he said," I agreed. "So we have a deal?"

"Deal," Professor Black said. He wrote out a short paragraph on a sheet of parchment, signed it, and passed it to Professor Lupin for a witness signature before handing it to me. "So you won't ask me to teach you the animagus transformation again?" he said.

"No, I won't," I answered, taking the parchment. "Of course, the reason I asked in the first place is that my friend Tracey Davis needs me to convince you to teach  _her_ , so we're going to have another deal if you wan't me to drop the subject entirely."

Professor Black groaned.

* * *

The first meeting of our little study group after returning to Hogwarts already started with an argument.

"If we're going to promote inter-house unity, we're going to need some Hufflepuffs," Neville Longbottom suggested. "And more Ravenclaws couldn't hurt. Right now, we've just got Luna."

"It's hard finding Ravenclaws who aren't total beasts to Luna," Ginny argued. "And the Hufflepuffs get flustered and stern whenever someone makes them talk to Draco."

"Well, if he'd just apologize to Parkinson, that wouldn't be a problem, would it?" Ginny's brother huffed. "I know we're all the best of mates now, but that was a really low move, Malfoy." I shrugged.

"I admit, it wasn't my best moment," I said. Blaise snorted. "And I can't apologize to Parkinson right now. MacMillan won't let me anywhere near her."

"We can distract Ernie next Hogsmeade weekend, if you promise to actually apologize," Potter said. "I've been wanting to talk to him about..." he shrugged. "Okay, there's not actually anything I wanted to talk to him about. Care of Magical Creatures, maybe?" Granger shook her head.

"Can't use that. Parkinson's in that class too," she said. "It won't give him an excuse to ignore her for a minute. What about his other electives? I think he's in Arithmancy with me."

"You're looking at it wrong," Luna said, from the other end of the Room of Requirement. "Ginny and I will do it."

"What?" Weasley asked, completely confused.

"She's saying you need to talk to Parkinson," I said. Long hours of guarding Luna in my parent's basement in the original timeline meant it took me a couple seconds less to pick up on what she was saying, which sometimes meant I could understand her at all. "You know, like she's an actual person instead of a just some accessory for MacMillain." Granger's mouth curled up at one side.

"Why, Draco, that was almost enlightened," she said. I gave an exaggerated bow.

"As to why the two of them: putting aside that they're both girls and thus an old-school, pompous pureblood like-"

"You?"

"Shut up, Weasley. Anyway, MacMillan won't want to listen in on 'girl talk' if there's something suitably manly to do. Potter, you distract him with Quidditch." Ginny elbowed me in the side. "Ow! What was that for?"

"Quidditch isn't manly. Well, not just manly."

"Riding around on six-foot sticks, putting things through large oval targets, and striving to catch one particular golden, objectified item? No, nothing 'manly' about it at all."

"You know what I meant. And seriously? You decided a dick joke was the way to go?"

"Technically it was a series of dick jokes. And you're twelve. How did you pick up on that?"

"... are you seriously surprised that a twelve-year-old is familiar with that level of humor? Especially one who grew up with six older brothers?"

"... Stop saying 'seriously,' you'll summon the professor."

"Wanker."

"Prat."

"OI!" This was Weasley. "Can we maybe talk about... whatever we were talking about before?" Next to him, Potter was looking at Ginny and I with a sort of bemused smile.

"Right, well, I think we were going to isolate Parkinson from MacMillain so Draco could apologize to her for treating her like some annoying, subhuman thing when we were all on the Hogwarts Express, and crushing all her hopes and dreams," Blaise said.

"Thank you, Blaise," I grated.

"Maybe he could also apologize for the way she was raised? For buying into pureblood society mores for 11 years and then so rapidly doing an about-face on that front that most of us watching got whiplash? And he could apologize for ruinging Slytherin for her forever, while he's at it," Blaise added.

" _Thank you, Blaise_ ," I added.

"If we're done managing Draco's social life, some of us came here to practice Defense," Daphne said. Beside her, Tracey nodded.

"And other things," she said. "Draco, did you get Professor Black to agree to the thing?"

"Um, not as such," I admitted. "But I did get another professor to agree to something in the mean time." Almost immediately, the Room, sensing my need for it, opened a door to the Defense Professor's office.

"Ah, you're all prepared, then?" Professor Lupin said. "I must say, that is an ingenious room."

"Wait, what are we learning?" Tracey asked, confused. Professor Lupin stood, and walked purposefully into the Room of Requirement.

"Some of you had bad reactions to the Dementors on the train," he said. "And others... well, if you did not react poorly, that was only because, if you'll pardon my sanctimoniousness, because of a lack of truly horrible life experiences." Blaise nodded, face a little paler than it had been a moment before. I didn't know what he'd seen when the Dementor had come into our compartment, but whatever it was, it was on par with my own visions, as well as Luna's. Only Ginny and Potter had worse reactions - Potter because of his connection to the Dark Lord, presumably, and Ginny because she'd spent some time possessed the previous year by said Dark Lord.

"To combat that, we're going to try to learn what is, unfortunately, a N.E.W.T.-level defense charm. I don't expect you all to have complete success by the end of the year, but it's good discipline and a worthy project, regardless," Professor Lupin added. "To demonstrate...  _EXPECTO PATRONUM_!"

A brilliant blue-white light shot from the end of his wand, resolving itself into a dancing, capering wolf. No werewolf this, the canine form loped around the room almost like a dog, tongue lolling out and clearly happy. Even Professor Lupin looked surprised at it.

"Honestly, I haven't been able to form a corporeal patronus since... well, since your parents were killed, Harry," the professor said. "I hadn't many happy memories in the years between then and now. Thank you all for helping me form some new ones." He called the patronus over to him like a pet, smiling a weary smiled. "That's enough now, Moon Moon," he said, and the ghostly dog faded from view.

"So!" he added. "That's the Patronus charm. As you have either seen or can guess, it drives Dementors back, and will also repel the Lethifold, about which you'll learn later in my class this year. Or next year, I suppose," he said, addressing Luna and Ginny. "It's really a third-year item. But the core of it, is to come up with a happy memory - because it's that memory that will power your patronus. So that's your homework this week: everyone come up with a memory they can use. Make it something truly happy - I warn you, little things like your first broom, or a particularly good meal, are unlikely to power a patronus." With that, he walked out, back to his office, and the Room of Requirement closed its door behind him.

"Okay, I admit, that was almost as cool as the animagus thing," Tracey said. "But we'll renegotiate later."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn it, Moon Moon. Stop being Remus' patronus.
> 
> Again, suggested patronus forms and animagus forms (as well as guesses as to who will eventually be an animagus, because not everybody will be), are welcome in reviews. If you're right, I'll say so in the author's notes. If I had something else in mind and I use yours instead because's it's cooler, I'll likewise credit you.
> 
> "When I was a kid, whenever I'd feel small or lonely, I'd read science fiction, wondering if there was a new, better story in there. Turns out I was looking in the wrong direction. When Harry Potter entered our world it was from the deep beneath the subconscious of J.K. Rowling, a fissure between schoolboy novel and modern fantasy. I was fifteen when the first book landed in San Francisco. The Houses came together, pooling their resources, throwing aside old rivalry for the sake of the greater good. To fight Twilight, we created stories of our own. The fanfiction program was born."


	34. Finding a Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Draco seeks to find a single, solitary memory strong enough to power a Patronus Charm, to limited avail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “87. If the thought of something makes me giggle for longer than 15 seconds, I am to assume that I am not allowed to do it.”  
> — 213 Things Skippy Is No Longer Allowed to Do in the U.S. Army

It’s amazing how difficult it can be to find a quiet spot in the castle on a Friday evening, especially given my newfound awareness that mildly-frightening Miles Bletchley and the rest of the Slytherin Quidditch team were the only things standing between me and a beating at best — and very possibly worse.

The week since Professor Lupin announced he would teach us all the Patronus charm had passed in a bit of a blur, and I didn’t have much luck in finding a happy memory in my free time — of which I had little. Between the three feet of parchment on the healing properties of Valerian root for Herbology, an afternoon dodging Nifflers in Hagrid’s class, Quidditch practice, and my _actual_ Defense Against the Dark Arts homework (list three Dark creatures one might encounter in the Forbidden Forest, the Ministry’s instructed method for confrontation, and what _you_ would do if confronted with one), I hadn’t had a spare moment to myself all week.

At least, that's what I kept telling myself as I finished my Defense notes early Friday night.

"Acromantula," I recalled. "Ministry suggests the shield charm and blasting hexes. I suggest summoning a broom and flying _out_ of the bloody forest." I double-checked the next bullet. "Werewolf. Ministry suggests a silver blade. I suggest _not being in the bloody forest on a full moon_." I chuckled as I wrote the last one down. "Wraith-Possessed Defense Professor. Ministry has no suggestion. I suggest baiting it with the Philosopher's Stone and leading it to its own doom, trapped forever within a mirror." Let Professor Lupin mark me down for that one — it _had_ actually worked. 

Done with my homework, I had the creeping realization that I had a good four hours before curfew to call my own, and I couldn't put off searching for a memory any longer. I went in search of a quiet, out-of-the-way place in the castle to think, and despite looking over my shoulder for Slytherins on the wrong side of the war, my biggest problem finding a quiet spot was older students paired off for snagging sessions in broom closets. Clearly, that was not an option, and from what I remembered from _being_ one of those older students — a flash of an older Pansy's face, which I quickly fought down as unhelpful — the Astronomy tower was equally pointless.

I tried the Room of Requirement, but someone was in it. I wasn't sure who, but the doors wouldn't appear to me, so I was well aware it was occupied. Outside the castle walls was a bad idea. It might be nice enough in early evening in mid-October, but if I knew Scotland at all, it was going to get cold fast once the sun was fully down.

On the fourth floor, looking out west over the great hall, I found a room. It looked to have once been a classroom, but the dust on the lectern at the front told me it had been long unused for that purpose. It was wide, flat, and airy — in this part of the castle, the ceiling was more part of the roof than the rest of the fourth floor — and over the hall, an enormous stained glass window looked out at the sunset over the mountains. It would be cold, as it was somewhat drafty, but a fireplace on either side of the room looked serviceable at least. It fit my needs perfectly, except for one small problem: Albus Dumbledore was standing in it, his back to me, facing out at the sunset.

"Good evening, Mr. Malfoy," he said, not turning toward me. "Beautiful, isn't it?" I walked into the room carefully, hand on my wand, but I realized a thirteen-year-old Draco would have nothing to fear from the headmaster outside of academic and general disciplinary issues.

"Good evening, Headmaster Dumbledore," I said, remembering my manners and clamping down so very, very hard on my thoughts with Occlumency that I immediately felt the beginnings of a headache. "It's, um, Mr. Black at the moment. I was informed in no uncertain terms that I have no right to the other name. Thankfully, Professor Black was willing to lend me his." Dumbledore turned then, a slight smile on his face and that frustrating twinkle in his eye.

"Did he indeed?" the headmaster said. "Alas, that such petty issues of names and misplaced pride should be visited upon students — and yet, how fortunate that in your loss of family, you have made a connection with other family that had previously been lost to you. What is it the Muggles say? 'When one door closes, another opens'? Would that such misfortunes as yours always worked out as well as this one has for you."

I tried to read the meaning in his words, assuming he was being cryptic — either offering advice, or perhaps criticism. But after a moment I realized he was attempting to be grandfatherly, projecting the image of the wise, kind old headmaster who genuinely cared for his students. Perhaps it was even true, but I still could not afford to let my guard down around him.

"I've been lucky," I admitted, and heard the headmaster chuckle slightly. He'd turned back to watching the sun set.

"Lucky?" he said. "No, Mr. Black, I should say you've worked hard to overcome the trials and tribulations with which you have found yourself faced. An ambition worthy of Slytherin house… or perhaps, courage worthy of Gryffindor or effort worthy of Hufflepuff. Our houses are not so different that a great many of us would fit elsewhere. I myself was very nearly sorted to Ravenclaw, though in the end my noble streak won out over my curiosity." I coughed politely.

"I think the Hufflepuffs might disagree with you, sir," I said. "I'm not terribly popular in that house at present." Surprisingly, the headmaster chuckled.

"Yes, your _faux pas_ on the Express first year," he said. "Miss Parkinson did not deserve your ire, of course, but two years later I believe you already know that." I nodded. "As you grow into adulthood, Mr. Black, you will come to find that there is none of us who does not carry a regret around. If we are lucky, then they are regrets such as yours — for things done poorly, from which you have learned and the consequences of which can still be mitigated — but all too often, we regret not the things we've done but those we did not do."

"Or those we didn't realize in time to fix," I followed his train of thought, and the headmaster seemed to shrink into himself a bit.

"Yes, precisely," Dumbledore said, softly and sad. "Though if we are willing, we can learn from even those." There was a silence for some moments, as the sun dipped behind the mountains completely, and the headmaster turned away from the window. "I believe I have kept this admirable room from you long enough. You looked to be searching for somewhere to be alone with your thoughts, and I have burdened you with mine long enough. But it will be cold here soon," he mused, and without a word send flame rushing to light both fires. "Be sure that you put them out when you are done," the headmaster said. "Good night, Mr. Black." 

"Good night, headmaster," I said as he breezed out of the room. I realized he had not even intruded on my thoughts with legilimency, but then again I had given him nothing to suspect me of save, perhaps, a plan to be out after curfew. " _Colloportus,_ " I added, locking the door behind him. It would not do for my thoughts to be interrupted by a sixth- or seventh-year Slytherin with violence on their mind, or worse — some other upperclassman searching for a place to snog.

As darkness fell outside like a hippogryff with its wings cut, I sat down in the center of the room, facing one of the fires. It _was_ cold, but I was able to move a few feet closer before it became uncomfortably hot, and I didn't need the distraction of any distinct temperature. I crossed my legs, focused on the fire in front of me. It danced and cavorted like a living thing, never leaving its boundaries, and I could find no meaning in it except that it was beautiful. I concentrated on it, closed my eyes, and let the memory of flames dance behind them.

I imagined myself sitting in front of the fire, still in its fireplace, but I was no longer in a drafty room at Hogwarts but on a sandy beach. I remembered it well: a summer on the Mediterranean, somewhere near Marseilles. I was eight, my hair not yet locked in that potion-driven helmet I'd been stuck with the first two years of Hogwarts, and I saw myself sitting across the fire from me. I was smiling, a secret little smile that spoke of satisfaction and honest pride, not the sneering arrogance I would develop just a few short years later. I saw my father sitting in his high-backed beach chair, waving his wand with casual elegance to make small creatures dance in the flames. A dusty Dark Arts tome sat closed on his legs, but he was enjoying our company for once, instead of his never-ending struggle for more power. My mother sat across from him, on a log, fastidiously cleaned of sand and dry as bone, elegance in her every action even as she ate some gooey confection made from marshmallow, chocolate and biscuit. It was a single moment, one moment where everyone was happy. 

I followed the memory back earlier in the day. We'd been on the beach all day, father and mother under an umbrella, myself barely avoiding burning in the sun. I'd built a sand castle — a simple thing, really, but I'd worked hard on it for an hour — and showed it to my father. He'd taken one look at it, looked it over long and hard, and pronounced it adequate: a palace worthy of a Malfoy. "Well done, Draco," he'd said, and meant it, before he went back to his book. I'd smiled all afternoon. I was still smiling that night, when we sat around the fire on the beach, lit by _incendio_ , and just enjoyed each other's company.

In my mind, I conjured up another box. It sat next to the box in which I'd thrown words like Mudblood, Blood traitor, and half-breed. I called this box "Memories I Don't Need." And in that box, I placed the following day. Because while that night might be my happiest memory, it was still tinged with sadness because of the following day.

We'd been on the beach again. My mother had a seashell, enchanted with hours of soothing music at a low volume, and she had allowed herself to lay out on the beach on a towel enchanted to repel sand, listening to the music and sleeping the day away. I imagine it was very relaxing, but as I was eight and under strict orders not to bother her while she relaxed, I was not a fan at the time.

My father, meanwhile, sat again in his high-backed chair, reading his thick Dark Arts tome, and ignoring all around him. I did not bother him. By now, I knew better. He would not yell, nor strike me. Such things were beneath him. But he would turn his disappointed gaze upon me, and my world would come crashing to an end with the weight of his displeasure, with the knowledge that I had failed him. It was, to an eight-year-old, the worst sort of punishment.

So I built another sand castle. It was more elaborate than the previous day's, and I worked the design of Malfoy Manor into the castle. It would have impressed me at 20; now that I looked back at it, it _did_. For an eight-year-old, it was nothing short of amazing. And it was all done with a metal spade and various pieces of driftwood, because plastic Muggle sand-moulding tools were not something a Malfoy used.

When I got my father's attention, he grunted in acknowledgement of the castle's existence, and went immediately back to his reading. Clearly I had not done well enough to impress him. I tore down the building and started again. This time, it was more elaborate. I recalled a trip to London in which we'd marveled at the various palaces and museums the Muggles had built — or, as my father had said at the time, which wizards had built and Muggles stolen from their rightful rulers many centuries ago. With such magnificent buildings in mind, I began from the ground up to create a castle worthy of a Malfoy.

There — that corner was modeled after Balmoral. Here, a tower from _the_ Tower. Malfoy Manor again in the tops of this wall or that one. A wide sand lake, with a small ship on it, driftwood for masts and kelp for rigging. Turrets and crenelations, a master architect's life's work in miniature: a masterpiece of sand. Had I not become a wizard, I could have pursued a future in building design, and I knew it in that moment. The castle was perfect.

I attempted to get Lucius' attention again, and he barely looked up, nodded, and went back to a chapter on controlling small countries with judicious application of the Cruciatus Curse when the country was too bribe-proof and could detect the Imperius Curse. All academic, I'm sure. Then again, he did buy a lot of land in South America when I was ten. But at eight, I could see nothing except that my castle, my masterpiece, was not good enough for my father's approval.

Rage flowed through me. I stomped all over my creation, reducing it to dust, fighting back tears but determined to make my father proud of me. I felt accidental magic radiating out from me, and I panicked, checking around the beach in case Muggles were watching. We were the only family for miles, and I let it wash out of me, over the ruined sand where my castle had been. 

What rose up was taller than I was. Unlike my first castle, which had been merely well-crafted, or my second, which was exceptionally so, this castle was perfect, crafted not through imperfect hands but straight from my memory through magic. I had only seen Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry once, when my father took me there on an errand for the Board of Governors, but even then my memory was excellent.

From Ravenclaw Tower at its height down to the Black Lake itself, the castle was perfectly replicated to scale… and it was alive. The sands of the lake rippled as if a wind were driving them. A waving tentacle — the Giant Squid, I realized later — poked out from them. Near the thousand sand trees, Hagrid's hut had a tiny boar hound running in circles. The Quidditch pitch had fourteen sandy players tossing little sand balls around as they flew on tiny sand brooms. A sandy figure I recognized as my godfather walked across the courtyard, next to a sandy witch in a pointed hat — McGonagall. And it kept up, powered by my outpouring of magic. 

"Father, look!" I said, immensely proud. And Lucius looked at me with a glare, with that face of utter disappointment and annoyance.

"Can you not see I am busy, Draco? This is very important. Do not bother me right now." He didn't see the castle, only a small boy, of little use to him. The sand Hogwarts crumbled into dust as my magic failed: an apocalypse of falling sand that wiped out Quidditch players, castle, and my hopes and dreams all at once. I began to cry, and my father's glare intensified.

"Lock that up, Draco. It is disgraceful; a sign of weakness. A Malfoy shows no such signs of weakness, even when you have reason for grief — and you do not right now. So help me, however, if you do not wipe away those tears, I will give you reason for grief." Through that, my mother slept on, oblivious to my father's words, to my tiny world-shattering event, to everything. That was the day I became who I was, in the first timeline, and had informed my actions ever since. Everything for the family. No signs of weakness. I had not cried again until Potter caught me in Myrtle's bathroom our sixth year.

Back at the real Hogwarts, I allowed myself to cry for only a moment or two. Then I took the sadness and locked it away. I did not need my father's approval now. "Regrets such as mine," I paraphrased the headmaster, "From which lessons can be learned." I put away the sadness and regret: I could deal with their consequences later, and learn from them now. I focused only on the joy of the fire the night before, of the smile on my face at my father's pride in me, at my mother's elegantly eating a messy confection. I had truly been happy, and the box in which I stored the negative feelings associated with it was proof, I hoped, against any dementor. 

 _"Expecto Patronum,"_ I said, holding my wand out in front of me. Even with an adult's experience, I didn't expect much to happen. Certainly not a corporeal Patronus. What I got, however, was a good start: a slight bit of silver mist, pushing out from my wand. With practice, I might actually be able to do something with this charm.

 _That_ thought filled me with more warmth than both fires together, and I wiped the remaining tears from my eyes and continued to practice until just before curfew. Then, watching over my shoulder for any remaining Slytherin assassins, I put out the fires with _aguamenti_ and made my way back toward the common room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’re wondering how they eat and breath, and other science facts, just repeat to yourself: “It’s J.K. Rowling’s. I should really just relax.”


End file.
